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THE 

Love Letters 

of 

DOROTHY 
OSBORNE 

to 

Sir William 

Temple 

1652-54 

Edited by 

Edward Abbott Parry 

l^etd iorfe 

Dodd, Mead Gf 
Company 

1901 



t,c 






TO 

MY DAUGHTER 

HELEN 

THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED 

EXEMPLI GRATIA 



Editorial Note 



It having been noted in the AthencBum, June 
9, 1888, that rumours were afloat doubting the 
authenticity of these letters, and that these ru- 
mours would sink to rest if the history of the 
originals were published, I hasten to adopt my 
reviewer's suggestion, and give an outline of their 
story. They are at present in the hands of the 
Rev. Robert Longe at Coddenham Vicarage, Suf- 
folk, where they have been for the last hundred 
years. At Sir William Temple's death in 1698, 
he left no other descendants than two grand- 
daughters — Elizabeth and Dorothy. Elizabeth 
died without issue in 1772; Dorothy married 
Nicholas Bacon, Esq. of Shrubland Hall in the 
parish of Coddenham. Dorothy left a son, the 
Rev. Nicholas Bacon, who was vicar of Codden- 
ham. This traces the letters to Coddenham 
Vicarage. The Rev. Nicholas Bacon dying with- 
out issue, bequeathed Coddenham Vicarage, with 
the pictures and papers therein, to the Rev. John 
Longe, who had married his wife's sister. The 
Rev. John Longe, who died in 1835, was the 



viii Editorial Note 

father of the present owner. This satisfactorily 
accounts for the letters being in their present 
hands, and these stated facts will, I trust, set at 
rest the fears or hopes of sceptics. 

Edward Abbott Parry. 

Manchestee, October 1888. 



Contents 



CHAP. PAGE 

I. Introduction 1 

II. Early Letters. Winter and Spring 1652-53 . 27 

III. Life at Chicksands. 1653 .... 60 

IV. Despondency. Christmas 1653 .... 210 
V. The Last op Chicksands. February and 

March 1654 235 

VI. Visiting. Summer 1654 287 

VII. The End of the Third Volume . . . 336 

Appendix— Lady Temple 342 



CHAPTER I 

INTEODUCTION 

"An editor," says Dr. Johnson, is "he that re- 
vises or prepares any work for publication ; " and 
this definition of an editor's duty seems wholly 
right and satisfactory. But now that the revi- 
sion of these letters is apparently complete, the 
reader has some right to expect a formal intro- 
duction to a lady whose name he has, in all prob- 
ability, never heard ; and one may not be over- 
stepping the modest and Johnsonian limits of an 
editor's office, when the writing of a short intro- 
duction is included among the duties of prepara- 
tion. 

Dorothy Osborne was the wife of the famous 
Sir William Temple, and apology for her biog- 
raphy will be found in her own letters, here for 
the first time published. Some of them have in- 
deed been printed in a Life of Sir William Tem- 
ple by the Right Honourable Thomas Peregrine 
Courtenay, a man better known to the Tory poli- 
tician of fifty years ago than to any world of let- 
ters in that day or this. Forty-two extracts from 
these letters did Courtenay transfer to an Appen- 
dix, without arrangement or any form of editing, 
as he candidly confesses ; but not without mis- 
givings as to how they would be received by a 
people thirsting to read the details of the negotia- 

1 



2 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

tions which took place in connection with the 
Triple Alliance. If Courtenay lived to learn that 
the world had other things to do than pore over 
dull excerpts from inhuman State papers, we may 
pity his awakening ; but we can never quite for- 
give the apologetic paragraph with which he rele- 
gates Dorothy Osborne's letters to the mouldy 
obscurity of an Appendix. 

When Macaulay was reviewing Courtenay's 
book in the Edinburgh Review^ he took occasion 
to write a short but living sketch of the early 
history of Sir William Temple and Dorothy Os- 
borne. And with this account so admirably 
written, ready at hand, it becomes the clear duty 
of the Editor to quote rather than to rewrite ; 
which he does with the greater pleasure, remem- 
bering that it was this very passage that i5rst led 
him to read the letters of Dorothy Osborne. 

"William Temple, Sir John's eldest son, was 
born in London in the year 1628. He received 
his early education under his maternal uncle, was 
subsequently sent to school at Bishop-Stortford, 
and, at seventeen, began to reside at Emmanuel 
College, Cambridge, where the celebrated Cud- 
worth was his tutor. The times were not favour- 
able to study. The Civil War disturbed even the 
quiet cloisters and bowling-greens of Cambridge, 
produced violent revolutions in the government 
and discipline of the colleges, and unsettled the 
minds of the students. Temple forgot at Em- 
manuel all the little Greek which he had brought 
from Bishop-Stortford, and never retrieved the 
loss ; a circumstance which would hardly be 
worth noticing but for the almost incredible fact, 



Introduction 3 

that fifty years later he was so absurd as to set 
up his own authority against that of Bentley on 
questions of Greek history and philology. He 
made no proficiency, either in the old philosophy 
which still lingered in the schools of Cambridge, 
or in the new philosophy of which Lord Bacon 
was the founder. But to the end of his life he 
continued to speak of the former with ignorant 
admiration, and of the latter with equally igno- 
rant contempt. 

" After residing at Cambridge two years, he 
departed without taking a degree, and set out 
upon his travels. He seems to have been then a 
lively, agreeable young man of fashion, not by 
any means deeply read, but versed in all the su- 
perficial accomplishments of a gentleman, and 
acceptable in all polite societies. In politics he 
professed himself a Koyalist. His opinions on 
religious subjects seem to have been such as might 
be expected from a young man of quick parts, 
who had received a rambling education, who had 
not thought deeply, who had been disgusted by 
the morose austerity of the Puritans, and who, 
surrounded from childhood by the hubbub of con- 
flicting sects, might easily learn to feel an impar- 
tial contempt for them all. 

" On his road to France he fell in with the son 
and daughter of Sir Peter Osborne. Sir Peter 
held Guernsey for the King, and the young peo- 
ple were, like their father, warm for the Royal 
cause. At an inn where they stopped in the Isle 
of "Wight, the brother amused himself with in- 
scribing on the windows his opinion of the ruling 
powers. For this instance of malignancy the 



4 Love Letters from Dorothy Oshorne 

whole party were arrested, and brought before 
the Governor. The sister, trusting to the tender- 
ness which, even in those troubled times, scarcely 
any gentleman of any party ever failed to show 
where a woman was concerned, took the crime 
on herself, and was immediately set at liberty 
with her fellow-travellers. 

"This incident, as was natural, made a deep 
impression on Temple. He was only twenty. 
Dorothy Osborne was twenty-one. She is said to 
have been handsome ; and there remains abun- 
dant proof that she possessed an ample share of 
the dexterity, the vivacity, and the tenderness of 
her sex. Temple soon became, in the phrase of 
that time, her servant, and she returned his re- 
gard. But difficulties, as great as ever expanded 
a novel to the fifth volume, opposed their wishes. 
When the courtship commenced, the father of 
the hero was sitting in the Long Parliament ; the 
father of the heroine was commanding in Guern- 
sey for King Charles. Even Avhen the war 
ended, and Sir Peter Osborne returned to his seat 
at Chicksands, the prospects of the lovers were 
scarcely less gloomy. Sir John Temple had a 
more advantageous alliance in view for his son. 
Dorothy Osborne was in the meantime besieged 
by as many suitors as were drawn to Belmont 
by the fame of Portia. The most distinguished 
on the list was Henry Cromwell. Destitute of 
the capacity, the energy, the magnanimity of his 
illustrious father, destitute also of the meek and 
placid virtues of his elder brother, this young 
man was perhaps a more formidable rival in love 
than either of thera would have been. Mrs.. 



Introduction 5 

Hutchinson, speaking the sentiments of the grave 
and aged, describes him as an ' insolent foole,' 
and a ' debauched ungodly cavalier,' These ex- 
pressions probably mean that he was one who, 
among young and dissipated people, would pass 
for a fine gentleman. Dorothy was fond of 
dogs, of larger and more formidable breed than 
those which lie on modern hearthrugs; and 
Henry Cromwell promised that the highest 
functionaries at Dublin should be set to work to 
procure her a fine Irish greyhound. She seems 
to have felt his attentions as very flattering, 
though his father was then only Lord General, 
and not yet Protector. Love, however, tri- 
umphed over ambition, and the young lady ap- 
pears never to have regretted her decision ; 
though, in a letter written just at the time when 
all England was ringing with the news of the 
violent dissolution of the Long Parliament, she 
could not refrain from reminding Temple with 
pardonable vanity, ' how great she might have 
been, if she had been so wise as to have taken 
hold of the offer of H. C 

" Nor was it only the influence of rivals that 
Temple had to dread. The relations of his mis- 
tress regarded him with personal dislike, and 
spoke of him as an unprincipled adventurer, with- 
out honour or religion, ready to render service to 
any party for the sake of preferment. This is, 
indeed, a very distorted view of Temple's char- 
acter. Yet a character, even in the most dis- 
torted view taken of it by the most angry and 
prejudiced minds, generally retains something of 
its outline. No caricaturist ever represented 



6 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

Mr. Pitt as a Falstaff, or Mr. Fox as a skeleton ; 
nor did any libeller ever impute parsimony to 
Sheridan, or profusion to Marlborough. It must 
be allowed that the turn of mind which the 
eulogists of Temple have dignified with the ap- 
pellation of philosophical indifference, and which, 
however becoming it may be in an old and ex- 
perienced statesman, has a somewhat ungraceful 
appearance in youth, might easily appear shock- 
ing to a family who were ready to fight or to 
suffer martyrdom for their exiled King and their 
persecuted Church. The poor girl was exceed- 
ingly hurt and irritated by these imputations on 
her lover, defended him warmly behind his back, 
and addressed to himself some very tender and 
anxious admonitions, mingled with assurances of 
her confidence in his honour and virtue. On one 
occasion she was most highly provoked by the 
way in which one of her brothers spoke of 
Temple. ' We talked ourselves weary,' she says ; 
' he renounced me, and I defied him.' 

"Near seven years did this arduous wooing 
continue. We are not accurately informed re- 
specting Temple's movements during that time. 
But he seems to have led a rambling life, some- 
times on the Continent, sometimes in Ireland, 
sometimes in London. He made himself master 
of the French and Spanish languages, and amused 
himself by writing essays and romances, an em- 
ployment which at least served the purpose of 
forming his style. The specimen which Mr. 
Courtenay has preserved of these early composi- 
tions is by no means contemptible : indeed, there 
is one passage on Like and Dislike, which could 



Introduction 7 

have been produced only by a mind habituated 
carefully to reflect on its own operations, and 
which reminds us of the best things in Mon- 
taigne. 

" Temple appears to have kept up a very active 
correspondence with his mistress. His letters are 
lost, but hers have been preserved ; and many of 
them appear in these volumes. Mr. Courtenay 
expresses some doubt whether his readers will 
think him justified in inserting so large a num- 
ber of these epistles. "We only wish that there 
were twice as many. Very little indeed of the 
diplomatic correspondence of that generation is 
so well worth reading." 

Here Macaulay indulges in an eloquent but 
lengthy philippic against that " vile phrase " the 
" dignity of history," which we may omit, — tak- 
ing up the thread of his discourse where he re- 
curs to the affairs of our two lovers. " Thinking 
thus," — concerning the " dignity of history," — 
" we are glad to learn so much, and would will- 
ingly learn more about the loves of Sir William 
and his mistress. In the seventeenth century, to 
be sure, Louis the Fourteenth was a much more 
important person than Temple's sweetheart. 
But death and time equalize all things. Neither 
the great King nor the beauty of Bedfordshire, 
neither the gorgeous paradise of Marli nor Mis- 
tress Osborne's favourite walk ' in the common 
that lay hard by the house, where a great many 
young wenches used to keep sheep and cows and 
sit in the shade singing of ballads,' is anything to 
us. Louis and Dorothy are alike dust. A cot- 
ton-mill stands on the ruins of Marli ; and th^ 



8 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

Osbornes have ceased to dwell under the ancient 
roof of Chicksands. But of that information, for 
the sake of which alone it is worth while to study- 
remote events, we find so much in the love let- 
ters which Mr. Courtenay has published, that we 
would gladly purchase equally interesting billets 
with ten times their weight in State papers taken 
at random. To us surely it is as useful to know 
how the young ladies of England employed them- 
selves a hundred and eighty years ago, how far 
their minds were cultivated, what were their 
favourite studies, what degree of liberty was al- 
lowed to them, what use they made of that 
liberty, what accomplishments they most valued 
in men, and what proofs of tenderness delicacy 
permitted them to give to favoured suitors, as to 
know all about the seizure of Franche-Comte and 
the Treaty of Nimeguen. The mutual relations 
of the two sexes seem to us to be at least as im- 
portant as the mutual relations of any two Gov- 
ernments in the world ; and a series of letters 
written by a virtuous, amiable, and sensible girl, 
and intended for the eye of her lover alone, can 
scarcely fail to throw some light on the relations 
of the sexes ; whereas it is perfectly possible, as 
all who have made any historical researches can 
attest, to read bale after bale of despatches and 
protocols, without catching one glimpse of light 
about the relations of Governments. 

" Mr. Courtenay proclaims that he is one of 
Dorothy Osborne's devoted servants, and ex- 
presses a hope that the publication of her letters 
will add to the number. "We must declare our- 
selves his rival?. She really seems to have been 



Introduction 9 

a very charming young woman, modest, gener- 
ous, affectionate, intelligent, and sprightly ; a 
Koyalist, as was to be expected from her connec- 
tions, without any of that political asperity 
which is as unwomanly as a long beard ; reli- 
gious, and occasionally gliding into a very pretty 
and endearing sort of preaching, yet not too good 
to partake of such diversions as London afforded 
under the melancholy rule of the Puritans, or to 
giggle a little at a ridiculous sermon from a 
divine who was thought to be one of the great 
lights of the Assembly at "Westminster ; with a 
little turn for coquetry, which was yet perfectly 
compatible with warm and disinterested attach- 
ment, and a little turn for satire, which yet sel- 
dom passed the bounds of good nature. She 
loved reading ; but her studies were not those of 
Queen Elizabeth and Lady Jane Grey. She read 
the verses of Cowley and Lord Broghill, French 
Memoirs recommended by her lover, and the 
Travels of Fernando Mendez Pinto, But her 
favourite books were those ponderous French 
romances which modern readers know chiefly 
from the pleasant satire of Charlotte Lennox. 
She could not, however, help laughing at the vile 
English into which they were translated. Her 
own style is very agreeable ; nor are her letters 
at all the worse for some passages in v/hich rail- 
lery and tenderness are mixed in a very engaging 
namby-pamby. 

" When at last the constancy of the lovers had 
triumphed over all the obstacles Avhich kinsmen 
and rivals could oppose to their union, a yet more 
serious calamity befell them. Poor Mistress 



10 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

Osborne fell ill of the small-pox, and, though she 
escaped with life, lost all her beauty. To this 
most severe trial the affection and honour of the 
lovers of that age was not unfrequently subjected. 
Our readers probably remember what Mrs. 
Hutchinson tells us of herself. The lofty Corne- 
lia-like spirit of the aged matron seems to melt 
into a long forgotten softness when she relates 
how her beloved Colonel ' married her as soon as 
she was able to quit the chamber, when the 
priest and all that saw her were afiPrighted to 
look on her. But God,' she adds, with a not un- 
graceful vanity, ' recompensed his justice and 
constancy by restoring her as well as before.' 
Temple showed on this occasion the same justice 
and constancy which did so much honour to 
Colonel Hutchinson. The date of the marriage 
is not exactly known, but Mr. Courtenay sup- 
poses it to have taken place about the end of the 
year 1654. From this time we lose sight of 
Dorothy, and are reduced to form our opinion 
of the terms on which she and her husband 
were from very slight indications which may 
easily mislead us." 

When an editor is in the pleasant position of 
being able to retain an historian of the eminence 
of Macaulay to write a large portion of his intro- 
duction, it would ill become him to alter and 
correct his statements wherever there w^as a 
petty inaccuracy ; still it is necessary to sa}"", 
once for all, that there are occasional errors in 
the passage, — as where Macaulay mentions that 
Chicksands is no longer the property of the 
Osbornes, — though happily not one of these errors 



Tntroditctio7i 11 

is in itself important. To our thinking, too, in 
the character that he draws of our heroine, 
Macaulay hardly appears to be sufficiently aware 
of the sympathetic womanly nature of Dorothy, 
and the dignity of her disposition; so that he is 
persuaded to speak of her too constantly from 
the position of a man of the world praising with 
patronizing emphasis the pretty qualities of a 
school-girl. But we must remember, that in 
forming our estimate of her character, we have 
an extended series of letters before us ; and from 
these the reader can draw his own conclusions as 
to the accuracy of Macaulay's description, and 
the importance of Dorothy's character. 

It was this passage from Macaulay that led the 
Editor to Courtenay's Appendix, and it was the 
literary and human charm of the letters them- 
selves that suggested the idea of stringing them 
together into a connected story or sketch of the 
love affairs of Dorothy Osborne. This was pub- 
lished in April 1886 in the English Illustrated 
Magazine^ and happened, by good luck, to fall 
into the hands of an admirer of Dorothy, who, 
having had access to the original letters, had 
made faithful and loving copies of each one, — ac- 
curate even to the old-world spelling. These 
labours had been followed up by much patient 
research, the fruits of which were now to be 
generously offered to the present Editor on con- 
dition that he would prepare the letters for the 
press. The owner of the letters having courte- 
ously expressed his acquiescence, nothing re- 
mained but to give to the task that patient care 
that it is easy to give to a labour of love. 



l2 Love Letters from 2)orothy Osborne 

A few words of explanation as to the arrange- 
ment of the letters. Although few of them were 
dated, it was found possible, by minute anal^^sis 
of their contents, to place them in approximately 
correct order; and if one could not date each 
letter, one could at least assign groups of letters 
to specific months or seasons of the year. The 
fact that New Year's day was at this period 
March 25 — a fact sometimes ignored by antiquar- 
ians of high repute — adds greatly to the difficulty 
of ascertaining exact dates, and as an instance of 
this we find in different chronicles of authority 
Sir Peter Osborne's death correctly, yet differ- 
ently, given as happening in March 1653 and 
March 1654. Throughout this volume the ordi- 
nary New Year's day has been retained. The 
further revision and preparation that the letters 
have undergone is shortly this. The spelling has 
been modernized, the letters punctuated and ar- 
ranged in paragraphs, and names indicated by in- 
itials have been, wherever it was possible, written 
in full. A note has been prefixed to each letter, 
printed in a more condensed form than the letter 
itself, and dealing with all the allusions contained 
in it. This system is very fit to be applied to 
Dorothy's letters, because, by its use, Dorothy is 
left to tell her own story without the constant 
and irritating references to footnotes or Appendix 
notes that other arrangements necessitate. The 
Editor has a holy horror of the footnote, and 
would have it relegated to those " hiblia a-bihlia " 
from which class he is sure Elia would cheerfully 
except Dorothy's letters. In the notes them- 
selves the endeavour has been to obtain, where it 



Introduction 13 

was possible, parallel references to letters, dia- 
ries, or memoirs, and the Editor can only regret 
that his researches, through both MSS. and 
printed records, have been so little successful. 
In the case of well-known men like Algernon 
Sydney, Lord Manchester, Edmund Waller, etc., 
no attempt has been made to write a complete 
note, — their lives and works being sufficiently 
well known; but in the case of more obscure 
persons, — as, for instance, Dorothy's brother-in- 
law, Sir Thomas Peyton, — all the known details 
of their history have been carefully collected. 
Yet in spite of patience, toil, and the kindness of 
learned friends, the Editor is bound to acknowl- 
edge that some names remain mere words to 
him, and but too many allusions are mysteriously 
dim. 

The division of the letters into chapters, at first 
sight an arbitrary arrangement, really follows 
their natural grouping. The letters were written 
in the years 1653 and 1654, and form a clear and 
connected story of the love affairs of the young 
couple during that time. The most important 
group of letters, both from the number of letters 
contained in it and the contents of the letters 
themselves, is that entitled " Life at Chicksands, 
1653." The Editor regards this group as the 
very mainland of the epistolary archipelago that 
we are exploring. For it is in this chapter that 
a clear idea of the domestic social life of these 
troublous times is obtainable, none the less val- 
uable in that it does not tally altogether with 
our preconceived and too romantic notions. 
Here, too, we find what Macaulay longed for — 



14 Love Letters from Dorothy Ostomy 

those social domestic trivialities which the histor- 
ians have at length begun to value rightly. Here 
are, indeed, many things of no value to Dryas- 
dust and his friends, but of moment to us, who 
look for and find true details of life and charac- 
ter in nearly every line. And above all things, 
here is a living presentment of a beautiful 
woman, pure in dissolute days, passing quiet 
hours of domestic life amongst her own family, 
where we may all visit her and hear her voice, 
even in the very tones in which she spoke to her 
lover. 

And now the Editor feels he must augment 
Macaulay's sketch of Dorothy Osborne with 
some account of the Osborne family, of whom it 
consisted, what part it took in the struggle of 
the day, and what was the past position of 
Dorothy's ancestors. All that can be promised 
is, that such account shall be as concise as may 
be consistent with clearness and accuracy, and 
that it shall contain nothing but ascertained 
facts. 

There were Osbornes — before there were 
Osbornes of Chicksands — who, coming out of 
the north, settled at Purleigh in Essex, where 
we find them in the year 1442. From this date, 
passing lightly over a hundred troubled years, 
we find Peter Osborne, Dorothy's great-grand- 
father, born in 1521. He was Keeper of the 
Purse to Edward VI., and was twice married, 
his second wife being Alice, sister of Sir John 
Cheke, a family we read of in Dorothy's letters. 
One of his daughters, named Catharine, — he had 
a well-balanced family of eleven sons and eleven 



tntroduction 15 

daughters, — afterwards married Sir Thomas 
Cheke. Peter Osborne died in 1592 ; and Sir 
John Osborne, Peter's son and Dorothy's grand- 
father, was the first Osborne of Chicksands. It 
was he who settled at Chicksands, in Bedford- 
shire, and purchased the neighbouring rectory at 
Hawnes, to restore it to that Church of which 
he and his family were in truth militant mem- 
bers ; and having generously built and furnished 
a parsonage house, he presented it in the first 
place to the celebrated preacher Thomas Bright- 
man, who died there in 1607. It is this rectory 
that in 1653-54 is in the hands of the Rev. 
Edward Gibson, who appears from time to time 
in Dorothy's letters, and who was on occasions 
the medium through which Temple's letters 
reached their destination, and avoided falling 
into the hands of Dorothy's jealous brother. Sir 
John Osborne married Dorothy Barlee, grand- 
daughter of Richard Lord Rich, Lord Chancellor 
of England in the reign of Henry YIII. Sir 
John was Treasurer's Remembrancer in the 
Exchequer for many years during the reign of 
James L, and was also a Commissioner of the 
Navy. He died November 2, 1628, and was 
buried in Campton Church, — Chicksands lies be- 
tween the village of Hawnes and Campton, — 
where a tablet to his memory still exists. 

Sir John had five sons : Peter, the eldest, 
Dorothy's father, who succeeded him in his hered- 
itary office of Treasurer's Remembrancer ; 
Christopher, Thomas, Richard, and Francis, — 
Francis Osborne may be mentioned as having 
taken the side of the Parliament in the Civil 



16 Zove Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

Wars. He was Master of the Horse to the Earl 
of Pembroke, and is noticeable to us as the only 
known relation of Dorothy who published a 
book. He was the author of an Advice to Ms 
Son, in two parts, and some tracts published in 
1722, of course long after his death. 

Of Sir Peter himself we had at one time 
thought to write at some length. The narrative 
of his defence of Castle Cornet for the King, 
embodied in his own letters, in the letters and 
papers of George Carteret, Governor of Jersey, 
in the detailed account left behind by a native 
of Guernsey, and in the State papers of the 
period, is one of the most interesting episodes in 
an epoch of episodes. But though the collected 
material for some short life of Sir Peter Osborne 
lies at hand, it seems scarcely necessary for the 
purpose of this book, and so not without reluc- 
tance it is set aside. 

Sir Peter was an ardent loyalist. In his 
obstinate flesh and blood devotion to the house 
of Stuart he was as sincere and thorough as Sir 
Henry Lee, Sir Geoffrey Peveril, or Kentish Sir 
Byng. He was the incarnation of the malignant 
of latter-day fiction. 

" King Charles, and who'll do him right now? 
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now ? 
Give a rouse ; here's in hell's despite now, 
King Charles. ' ' 

To this text his life wrote the comment. 

In 1621, James I. created him Lieutenant-Gov- 
ernor of Guernsey. He had married Dorothy, 
sister of Sir John Danvers. Sir John was the 



Introduction It 

younger brother and heir to the Earl of Danby, 
and was a Gentleman of the Privy Chamber to 
the King. Clarendon tells us that he got into 
debt, and to get out of debt found himself in 
Cromwell's counsel ; that he was a proud, formal, 
weak man, between being seduced and a seducer, 
and that he took it to be a high honour to sit on 
the same bench with Cromwell, who employed 
him and contemned him at once. The Earl of 
Danby was the Governor of Guernsey, and Sir 
Peter was his lieutenant until 1643, when the 
Earl died, and Sir Peter was made full Governor. 
It would be in 1643 that the siege of Castle 
Cornet began, the same year in which the rents 
of the Chicksands estate were assigned away 
from their rightful owner to one Mr. John Black- 
stone, M.P. Sir Peter was in his stronghold on 
a rock in the sea ; he was for the King. The 
inhabitants of the island, more comfortably sit- 
uated, were a united party for the Parliament. 
Thus they remained for three years; the King 
writing to Sir Peter to reduce the inhabitants to 
a state of reason ; the Parliament sending in- 
structions to the jurats of Guernsey to seize the 
person of Sir Peter ; and the Earl of Warwick, 
prompted, we should suppose, by Sir John Dan- 
vers, offering terms to Sir Peter which he indig- 
nantly rejected. Meanwhile Lady Osborne — 
Dorothy with her, in all probability — was doing 
her best to victual the castle from the mainland, 
she living at St. Malo during the siege. At 
length, her money all spent, her health broken 
down, she returned to England, and was lost to 
sight. Sir Peter himself heard nothing of her, 



18 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

and her sons in England, who were doing all 
they could for their father among the King's 
friends, did not know of her whereabouts. 

In 1646 he resigned his command. He was 
weary and heavy laden with unjust burdens 
heaped on him by those for whom and with 
whom he was fighting ; he was worn out by the 
siege; by the characteristic treachery of the 
King, who, being unable to assist him, could not 
refrain from sending lying promises instead ; and 
by the malice of his neighbour, George Carteret, 
Governor of Jersey, who himself made free with 
the Guernsey supplies, while writing home to 
the King that Sir Peter has betrayed his trust. 
Betrayed his trust, indeed, when he and his gar- 
rison are reduced to " one biscuit a day and a 
little porrage for supper," together with limpets 
and herbs in the best mess they can make ; nay, 
more, when they have pulled up their floors for 
firewood, and are dying of hunger and want in 
the stone shell of Castle Cornet for the love of 
their King. However, circumstances and Sir 
George Carteret were too much for him, and, at 
the request of Prince Charles, he resigned his 
command to Sir Baldwin Wake in May 1646, 
remaining three years after this date at St. Malo, 
where he did what he was able to supply the 
wants of the castle. Sir Baldwin surrendered 
the castle to Blake in 1650. It was the last 
fortress to surrender. 

In 1649 Sir Peter, finding the promises of re- 
ward made by the Prince to be as sincere as 
those of his father, returned to England, and 
probably through the intervention of his father- 



Introduction 19 

in-law, who was a strict Parliament man, his 
house and a portion of his estates at Chicksands 
were restored to him. To these he retired, dis- 
appointed in spirit, feeble in health, soon to be 
bereft of the company of his wife, who died to- 
wards the end of 1650, and, but for the constant 
ministering of his daughter Dorothy, living lonely 
and forgotten, to see the cause for which he had 
fought discredited and dead. He died in March 
1654, after a long, weary illness. The parish 
register of Campton describes him as " a friend 
to the poor, a lover of learning, a maintainor of 
divine exercises." There is still an inscription 
to his memory on a marble monument on the 
north side of the chancel in Campton church. 

Sir Peter had seven sons and five daughters. 
There were only three sons living in 1653 ; the 
others died young, one laying down his life for 
the King at Hartland in Devonshire, in some 
skirmish, we must now suppose, of which no 
trace remains. Of those living. Sir John, the 
eldest son and the first baronet, married his 
cousin Eleanor Danvers, and lived in Gloucester- 
shire during his father's life. Henry, afterwards 
knighted, was probably the jealous brother who 
lived at Chicksands with Dorothy and her father, 
with whom she had many skirmishes, and who 
wished in his kind fraternal way to see his sister 
well — that is to say, wealthily — married. Eobert 
is a younger brother, a year older than Dorothy, 
who died in September 1653, and who did not 
apparently live at Chicksands. Dorothy herself 
was born in 1627 ; where, it is impossible to say. 
Sir Peter was presumably at Castle Cornet at 



so Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

that date, but it is doubtful if Lady Osborne ever 
stayed there, the accommodation within its walls 
being straitened and primitive even for that day. 
Dorothy was probably born in England, maybe 
at Chicksands. Her other sisters had married 
and settled in various parts of England before 
1653. Her eldest sister (not Anne, as Wotton 
conjectures) married one Sir Thomas Peyton, a 
Kentish Koyalist of some note. "What little 
could be gleaned of his actions from amongst 
Kentish antiquities and history, and such letters 
of his as lie entombed in the MSS. of the British 
Museum, is set down hereafter. He appears to 
have acted, after her father's death, as Dorothy's 
guardian, and his name occurs more than once in 
the pages of her letters. 

So much for the Osbornes of Chicksands ; an 
obstinate, sturdy, quick-witted race of Cavaliers ; 
linked by marriage to the great families of the 
land ; aristocrats in blood and in spirit, of whom 
Dorothy was a worthy descendant. Let us try 
now and picture for ourselves their home. 
Chixon, Chikesonds, or Chicksands Priory, Bed- 
fordshire, as it now stands, — what a pleasing va- 
rious art was spelling in olden time, — was, in the 
reign of Edward III., a nunnery, situated then, 
as now, on a slight eminence, with gently rising 
hills at a short distance behind, and a brook run- 
ning to join the river Ivel, thence the German 
Ocean, along the valley in front of the house. 
The neighbouring scenery of Bedfordshire is on 
a humble scale, and concerns very little those 
who do not frequent it and live among it, as we 
must do for the next year op more. 



Introduction 21 

The Priory is a low-built sacro-secular edifice, 
well fitted for its former service. Its priestly 
denizens were turned out in Henry YIII.'s monk- 
hunting reign (1538). To the joy or sorrow of 
tlie neighbourhood, — who knows now ? Granted 
then to one Richard Snow, of whom the records 
are silent ; by him sold, in Elizabeth's reign, to 
Sir John Osborne, Knt., thus becoming the an- 
cestral home of our Dorothy. There is a crisp 
etching of the house in Fisher's Collections of 
Bedfordshire. The very exterior of it is Catho- 
lic, unpuritanical ; no methodism about the 
square windows, set here and there at undecided 
intervals wheresoever they may be Avanted. Six 
attic windows jut out from the low-tiled roof. 
At the corner of the house is a high pinnacled 
buttress rising the full height of the wall ; five 
buttresses flank the side wall, built so that they 
shade the lower windows from the morning sun, 
■ — in one place reaching to the sill of an upper 
window. At the further end of the wall are two 
Gothic windows, claustral remnants, lighting 
now perhaps the dining-hall where cousin Molle 
and Dorothy sat in state, or the saloon where 
the latter received her servants. There are still 
cloisters attached to the house, at the other side 
of it maybe. Yes, a sleepy country house, the 
warm earth and her shrubs creeping close up to 
the very sills of the lower windows, sending in 
morning fragrance, I doubt not, when Dorothy 
thrust back the lattice after breakfast. A quiet 
place, — " slow " is the accurate modern epithet 
for it — " awfully slow ; " but to Dorothy a quite 
suitable home, at which she never repines. 



22 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

This etching by Thomas Fisher, of December 
26, 1816, is the more valuable to us since the old 
Chicksands Priory no longer remains, having 
suffered martyrdom at the bloody hands of the 
restorer. For through this partly we have at- 
tained to a knowledge of Dorothy's surround- 
ings ; and through the baronetages, peerages, 
and the invincible heaps of genealogical records, 
we have gathered some few actual facts neces- 
sary to be knoAvn of Dorothy's relations, her hu- 
man surroundings, their lives and actions. And 
we shall not find ourselves following Dorothy's 
story with the less interest that we have mas- 
tered these details about the Osbornes of Chick- 
sands. 

Temple, too, claims the consideration at our 
hands of a few words concerning his near rela- 
tives and their position in the country. As 
Macaulay tells us, he was born in 1628, the place 
of his birth being Blackfriars in London. 

Sir John Temple, his father, was Master of the 
Kolls and a Privy Councillor in Ireland ; he was 
in the confidence of Kobert Sidney, Earl of 
Leicester, the Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland. Al- 
gernon Sydney, the Earl's son, was well known 
to Temple, and perhaps to Dorothy. Sir John 
Temple, like his son in after life, refused to look 
on politics as a game in which it was always ad- 
visable to play on the winning side, and thus we 
find him opposing the Duke of Ormond in Ire- 
land in 1643, and suffering imprisonment as a 
partisan of the Parliament. In England, in 
1648, when he was member for Chichester, he 
concurred with the Presbyterian vote, thereby 



Introduction 23 

causing the more advanced section to look askance 
at him, and he was turned out of the House, 
or secluded^ to use the elegant parliamentary 
language of the day. From that time he lived 
in retirement in London until 1654, when, as we 
read in Dorothy's letters, he and his son go over 
to Ireland. He resumed his office of Master of 
the Kolls, and in August of that year was elected 
to the Irish Parliament as one of the members 
for Leitrim, Sligo, and Koscommon. 

Temple's mother was a sister of Dr. Hammond, 
to whom one Dr. John Collop, a poetaster un- 
known in these days even by name, begins an 
ode — 

"Seraphic Doctor, bright evangelist." 

The " seraphic Doctor " was rector of Penshurst, 
near Tunbridge Wells, the seat of the Sydneys. 
From Hammond, who was a zealous adherent of 
Charles I., Tem})le received much of his early 
education. "When the Parliament drove Dr. 
Hammond from his living, Temple was sent to 
school at Bishop-Stortford ; and the rest of his 
early life, with an account of his meeting with 
Dorothy, has been already set down for us by 
Macaulay. 

Anno Domini sixteen hundred and fifty-three ; 
— let us look round through historic mist for 
landmarks, so that we may know our where- 
abouts. The narrow streets of Worcester had 
been but lately stained by the blood of heaped 
corpses. Cromwell was meditating an abolition 
of the Parliament, and a practical coronation of 
himself. The world had ceased to wonder at 



24 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

English democracy giving laws to their quondam 
rulers, and the democracy was beginning to be a 
little tired of itself, to disbelieve in its own irk- 
some discipline, and to sigh for the flesh-pots of 
a modified Presbyterian monarchy. Cromwell, 
indeed, was at the height of his glory, his hon- 
ours lie thick upon him, and now, if ever, he is 
the regal Cromwell that Victor Hugo has por- 
trayed, the uncrowned King of England, tram- 
pling under foot that sacred liberty, the baseless 
ideal for which so many had fought and bled. 
He is soon to be Lord Protector. He is second 
to none upon earth. England is again at peace 
with herself, and takes her position as one of the 
great Powers of Europe ; Cromwell is England's 
king. So much for our rulers and politics. Now 
let us remember our friends, those whom we love 
on account of the work they have done for us 
and bequeathed to us, through which we have 
learned to know them. One of the best beloved 
and gentlest of these, who by the satire of heaven 
was born into England in these troublous times, 
was now wandering by brook and stream, scarcely 
annoyed by the uproar and confusion of the fac- 
tions around him. And what he knew of Eng- 
land in these days he has left in perhaps the gen- 
tlest and most peaceful volume the world has 
ever read. I speak of Master Izaak Walton, who 
in this year, 1653, published the first edition of 
his Compleat Angler, and left a comrade for the 
idle hours of all future ages. Other friends we 
have, then living, but none so intimate or well 
beloved. Mr. Waller, whom Dorothy may have 
known, Mr. Cowley, Sir Peter Lely, — who painted 



Introduction 25 

our heroine's portrait, — and Dr. Jeremy Taylor ; 
very courtly and superior persons are some of 
these, and far removed from our world. Milton 
is too sublime to be called our friend, but he was 
Cromwell's friend at this time. Evelyn, too, is 
already making notes in his journal at Paris and 
elsewhere ; but little prattling Pepys has not yet 
begun diary-making. Other names will come to 
the mind of every reader, but many of these are 
" people we know by name," as the phrase runs, 
mere acquaintances, — not friends. Nevertheless 
even these leave us some indirect description of 
their time, from which we can look back through 
the mind's eye to this year of grace 1653, in which 
Dorothy was living and writing. Yes, if we can- 
not actually visualize the past, these letters will 
at least convince us that the past did exist, a past 
not wholly unlike the present ; and if we would 
realize the significance of it, we have the word of 
one of our historians, that there is no lamp by 
which to study the history of this period that 
gives a brighter and more searching light than 
contemporary letters. Thus he recommends their 
study, and we may apply his words to the letters 
before us : "A man intent to force for himself 
some path through that gloomy chaos called His- 
tory of the Seventeenth Century, and to look face 
to face upon the same, may perhaps try it by this 
method as hopefully as by another. Here is an 
irregular row of beacon fires, once all luminous 
as suns ; and with a certain inextinguishable cru- 
bescence still, in the abysses of the dead deep 
Night. Let us look here. In shadowy outlines, 
in dimmer and dimmer crowding forms, the very 



26 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

figure of the old dead Time itself may perhaps 
be faintly discernible here." 



With this, I feel that I may cast off some of 
the forms and solemnities necessary to an edi- 
torial introduction, and, assuming a simpler and 
more personal pronoun, ask the reader, who shall 
feel the full charm of Dorothy's bright wit and 
tender womanly sympathy, to remember the 
thanks due to my fellow-servant, whose patient, 
single-hearted toil has placed these letters within 
our reach. And when the reader shall close this 
volume, let it not be without a feeling of grati- 
tude to the unknown, whose modesty alone pre- 
vents me from changing the title of fellow-serv- 
ant to that of fellow-editor. 



CHAPTEE II 

EARLY LETTERS. WINTER AND SPRING 1652-53 

This first chapter begins with a long letter, 
dated from Chicksands some time in the autumn 
of 1652, when Temple has returned to England 
after a long absence. It takes us up to March 
1653, about the end of which time Dorothy went 
to London and met Temple again. The engage- 
ment she mentions must have been one that her 
parents were forcing upon her, and it was not 
until the London visit, I fancy, that her friend- 
ship progressed beyond its original limits ; but in 
this matter the reader of Dorothy's letters will 
be as well able to judge as myself. 

Letter I. — Goring House, where Dorothy and 
Temple had last parted, was in 1646 appointed 
by the House of Commons for the reception of 
the French Ambassador. In 1665 it was the 
town house of Mr. Secretary Bennet, afterwards 
Lord Arlington. Its grounds stood much in the 
position of the present Arlington Street, and 
Evelyn speaks of it as an ill-built house, but capa- 
ble of being made a pretty villa. 

Dorothy mentions, among other things, that 
she has been " drinking the waters," though she 
does not say at what place. It would be either 
at Barnet, Epsom, or Tunbridge, all of which 
places are mentioned by contemporary letter- 

27 



28 Lo'oe Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

writers as health resorts. At Barnet there was 
a calcareous spring with a small portion of sea 
salt in it, which, as we may gather from a later 
letter, had been but recently discovered. This 
spring was afterwards, in the year 1677, endowed 
by one John Owen, Avho left the sum of £1 to 
keep the well in repair " as long as it should be 
of service to the parish." Towards the end of 
last century, Lyson mentions that the well was 
in decay and little used. One wonders what has 
become of John Owen's legacy. The Epsom 
spring had been discovered earlier in the century. 
It was the first of its kind found in England. 
The town was already a place of fashionable re- 
sort on account of its mineral waters ; they are 
mentioned as of European celebrity ; and as early 
as 1609 a ball-room was erected, avenues were 
planted, and neither Bath nor Tunbridge could 
rival Epsom in the splendour of their appoint- 
ments. Towards the beginning of the last cen- 
tury, however, the waters gradually lost their 
reputation. Tunbridge Wells, the last of the 
three watering-places that Dorothy may have 
visited, is still flourishing and fashionable. Its 
springs are said to have been discovered by Lord 
North in 1606 ; and the fortunes of the place 
were firmly established by a visit paid to the 
springs by Queen Henrietta Maria, acting under 
medical advice, in 1630, shortly after the birth of 
Prince Charles. At this date there was no ade- 
quate accommodation for the royal party, and 
Her Majesty had to live in tents on the banks of 
the spring. An interesting account of the early 
legends and gradual growth of Tunbridge Wells 



Early Letters 2D 

is to be found in a guide-book of 1768, edited by 
one Mr, J. Sprange. 

The elderly man who proposed to Dorothy 
was Sir Justinian Isham, Bart., of Lamport in 
Northamptonshire. He himself was about forty- 
two years of age at this time, and had lost his 
first wife (by Avhom he had four daughters) in 
1638. The Rev. W. Betham, with that optimism 
which is characteristic of compilers of peerages, 
thinks " that he was esteemed one of the most 
accomplished persons of the time, being a gentle- 
man, not only of fine learning, but famed for his 
piety and exemplary life." Dorothy thinks 
otherwise, and writes of him as " the vainest, im- 
pertinent, self-conceited, learned coxcomb that 
ever yet I saw." Peerages in Dorothy's style 
would perhaps be unprofitable writing. The 
" Emperor," as Dorothy calls him in writing to 
Temple, may feel thankful that his epitaph was 
in others hands than hers. He appears to have 
proposed to her more than once, and evidently 
had her brother's good offices, which I fear were 
not much in his favour with Dorothy. He ulti- 
mately married the daughter of Thomas Lord 
Leigh of Stoneleigh, some time in the following 
year. 

Sir Thomas Osborne, a Yorkshire baronet, 
afterwards Earl of Danby, is a name not unknown 
in history. He was a cousin of Dorothy ; his 
mother, Elizabeth Dan vers, being Dorothy's aunt. 
He afterwards married Lady Bridget Lindsay, 
the Earl of Lindsay's daughter, and the marriage 
is mentioned in due course, with Dorothy's com- 
ments. His leadership of the " Country Party," 



So iLove Letters from Dorothy Oshorhd 

when the reins of government were taken from 
the discredited Cabal, is not matter for these 
pages, neither are we much concerned to know 
that he was greedy of wealth and honours, cor- 
rupt himself, and a corrupter of others. This is 
the conventional character of all statesmen of all 
dates and in all ages, reflected in the mirror of 
envious opposition ; no one believes the descrip- 
tion to be true. Judged by the moral standard 
of his contemporaries, he seems to have been at 
least of average height. How near was Dorothy 
to the high places of the State when this man 
and Henry Cromwell were among her suitors ! 
Had she been an ambitious woman, illustrious 
historians would have striven to do justice to her 
character in brilliant periods, and there would be 
no need at this day for her to claim her place 
among the celebrated women of England. 

SiE, — There is nothing moves my charity like 
gratitude ; and when a beggar is thankful for a 
small relief, I always repent it was not more. 
But seriously, this place will not afford much 
towards the enlarging of a letter, and I am grown 
so dull with living in't (for I am not willing to 
confess yet I was always so) as to need all helps. 
Yet you shall see I will endeavour to satisfy 
you, upon condition you will tell me why you 
quarrelled so at your last letter. I cannot guess 
at it, unless it were that you repented you told 
me so much of your story, which I am not apt 
to believe neither, because it would not become 



Early Letters 31 

our friendship, a great part of it consisting (as I 
have been taught) in a mutual confidence. And 
to let you see that I believe it so, I will give you 
an account of myself, and begin my story, as 
you did yours, from our parting at Goring 
House. 

I came down hither not half so well pleased as 
I went up, with an engagement upon me that I 
had little hope of shaking off, for I had made 
use of all the liberty my friends would allow me 
to preserve my own, and 'twould not do ; he was 
so weary of his, that he would part with it upon 
any terms. As my last refuge I got my brother 
to go down with him to see his house, who, when 
he came back, made the relation I wished. He 
said the seat was as ill as so good a country 
would permit, and the house so ruined for want 
of living in't, as it would ask a good proportion 
of time and money to make it fit for a woman to 
confine herself to. This (though it were not 
much) I was willing to take hold of, and made it 
considerable enough to break the engagement. 
I had no quarrel to his person or his fortune, but 
was in love with neither, and much out of love 
with a thing called marriage ; and have since 
thanlied God I was so, for 'tis not long since one 
of my brothers writ me word of him that he was 
killed in a duel, though since I have heard that 
'twas the other that was killed, and he is fled 



32 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

upon 't, which does not mend the matter much. 
Both made me glad I had 'scaped him, and sorry 
for his misfortune, which in earnest was the least 
return his many civilities to me could deserve. 

Presently, after this was at an end, my mother 
died, and I was left at liberty to mourn her loss 
awhile. At length my aunt (with whom I was 
when you last saw me) commanded me to wait 
on her at London; and when I came, she told 
me how much I was in her care, how well she 
loved me for my mother's sake, and something 
for my own, and drew out a long set speech 
which ended in a good motion (as she call'd it) ; 
and truly I saw no harm in't, for by what I had 
heard of the gentleman I guessed he expected a 
better fortune than mine. And it proved so. 
Yet he protested he liked me so well, that he 
was very angry my father would not be per- 
suaded to give £1000 more with me ; and I him 
so ill, that I vowed if I had £1000 less I should 
have thought it too much for him. And so we 
parted. Since, he has made a story with a new 
mistress that is worth your knowing, but too 
long for a letter. I'll keep it for you. 

After this, some friends that had observed a 
gravity in my face which might become an 
elderly man's wife (as they term'd it) and a 
mother-in-law, proposed a widower to me, that 
had four daughters, all old enough to be my sis- 



Early Letters 33 

ters ; but he had a great estate, was as fine a 
gentleman as ever England bred, and the very 
pattern of wisdom. I that knew how much I 
wanted it, thought this the safest place for me 
to engage in, and was mightily pleased to think 
I had met with one at last that had wit enough 
for himself and me too. But shall I tell you 
what I thought when I knew him (you will say 
nothing on't) : 'twas the vainest, impertinent, 
self-conceited, learned coxcomb that ever yet I 
saw; to say more were to spoil his marriage, 
which I hear is towards with a daughter of my 
Lord Coleraine's ; but for his sake I shall take 
care of a fine gentleman as long as I live. 

Before I have quite ended with him, coming 
to town about that and some other occasions of 
my own, I fell in Sir Thomas's way ; and what 
humour took I cannot imagine, but he made 
very formal addresses to me, and engaged his 
mother and my brother to appear in't. This 
bred a story pleasanter than any I have told you 
yet, but so long a one that I must reserve it till 
we meet, or make it a letter of itself. 

The next thing I designed to be rid on was a 
scurvy spleen that I have been subject to, and to 
that purpose was advised to drink the waters. 
There I spent the latter end of the summer, and 
at my coming home found that a gentleman 
(who has some estate in this country) had beeu 



34 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

treating with my brother, and it yet goes on fair 
and softly. I do not know him so much as to 
give you much of his character : 'tis a modest, 
melancholy, reserved man, whose head is so 
taken up with little philosophic studies, that I 
admire how I found a room there. 'Twas sure 
by chance ; and unless he is pleased with that 
part of my humour which other people think the 
worst, 'tis very possible the next new experiment 
may crowd me out again. Thus you have all 
my late adventures, and almost as much as this 
paper will hold. The rest shall be employed in 
telling you how sorry I am you have got such a 
cold. I am the more sensible of your trouble by 
my own, for I have newly got one myself. But 
I will send you that which was to cure me. 'Tis 
like the rest of my medicines : if it do no good, 
'twill be sure to do no harm, and 'twill be no 
great trouble to take a little on't now and then ; 
for the taste on't, as it is not excellent, so 'tis not 
very ill. One thing more I must tell you, which 
is that you are not to take it ill that I mistook 
your age by my computation of your journey 
through this country ; for I was persuaded t'other 
day that I could not be less than thirty years old 
by one that believed it himself, because he was 
sure it was a great while since he had heard of 
such a one as 

Your humble servant. 



Early Letters 35 

Letter 2. — This letter, which is dated, comes, I 
think, at some distance of time from the first 
letter. Dorothy may have dated her letters to 
ordinary folk ; but as she writes to her servant 
once a week at least, she seems to have consid- 
ered dates to be superfluous. When Temple is 
in Ireland, her letters are generally dated with 
the day of the month. Temple had probably 
returned from a journey into Yorkshire, — his 
travels in Holland were over some time ago, — 
and passing through Bedford within ten miles of 
Chicksands, he neglected to pay his respects to 
Dorothy, for which he is duly called to account 
in Letter 3. 



Decemher 24, 1652. 
SiE, — You may please to let my old servant 
(as you call him) know that I confess I owe 
much to his merits and the many obligations his 
kindness and civilities has laid upon me ; but for 
the ten pound he claims, it is not yet due, and I 
think you may do well to persuade him (as a 
friend) to put it in the number of his desperate 
debts, for 'tis a very uncertain one. In aU 
things else, pray say I am his servant. And 
now, sir, let me tell you that I am extremely 
glad (whosoever gave you the occasion) to hear 
from you, since (without compliment) there are 
very few persons in the world I am more con- 
cerned in ; to find that you have overcome your 
long journey, and that you are well and in a 



36 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

place where 'tis possible for me to see you, is 
such a satisfaction as I, who have not been used 
to many, may be allowed to doubt of. Yet I 
will hope my eyes do not deceive me, and that I 
have not forgot to read ; but if you please to 
confirm it to me by another, you know how to 
direct it, for I am where I was, still the same, 
and always 

Your humble servant, 

D. Osborne. 
For Mrs. Paynter, 

In Covent Garden. 

(Keep this letter till it be called for.) 

Letter 3. 

January ^nd, 1653. 
Sir, — If there were anything in my letter that 
pleased you I am extremely glad on't, 'twas all 
due to you, and made it but an equal return for 
the satisfaction yours gave me. And whatsoever 
you may believe, I shall never repent the good 
opinion I have with so much reason taken up. 
But I forget myself; I meant to chide, and I 
think this is nothing towards it. Is it possible 
you came so near me as Bedford and would not 
see me? Seriously, I should not have believed 
it from another ; would your horse had lost all 
his legs instead of a hoof, that he might not bav© 



Early Letters 37 

been able to carry you further, and you, some- 
thing that you valued extremely, and could not 
hope to find anywhere but at Chicksands. I 
could wish you a thousand little mischances, I 
am so angry with you ; for my life I could not 
imagine how I had lost you, or why you should 
call that a silence of six or eight weeks which 
you intended so much longer. And when I had 
wearied myself with thinking of all the unpleas- 
ing accidents that might cause it, I at length sat 
down with a resolution to choose the best to be- 
lieve, which was that at the end of one journey 
you had begun another (which I had heard you 
say you intended), and that your haste, or some- 
thing else, had hindered you from letting me 
know it. In this ignorance your letter from 
Breda found me. But for God's sake let me ask 
you what you have done all this while you have 
been away ; what you have met with in Holland 
that could keep you there so long; why you 
went no further ; and why I was not to know 
you went so far ? You may do well to satisfy 
me in all these. I shall so persecute you with 
questions else, when I see you, that you will be 
glad to go thither again to avoid me ; though 
when that will be I cannot certainly say, for my 
father has so small a proportion of health left 
him since my mother's death, that I am in con- 
tinual fear of him, and dare not often make use 



38 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

of the leave he gives me to be from home, lest 
he should at some time want such little services 
as I am able to lend him. Yet I think to be in 
London in the next term, and am sure I shall 
desire it because you are there. 

Sir, your humble servant. 

Letter 4. — The story of the king who re- 
nounced the league with his too fortunate friend 
is told in the third book of Herodotus. Amasis 
is the king, and Polycrates the confederate. 
Dorothy may have read the story in one of the 
French translations, either that of Pierre Saliat, 
a cramped duodecimo published in 1580, or that 
of P. du Ryer, a magnificent folio published in 
1646. 

My Lord of Holland's daughter. Lady Diana 
Rich, was one of Dorothy's dearest and most in- 
timate friends. Dorothy had a high opinion of 
her excellent wit and noble character, which she 
is never tired of repeating. We find allusions to 
her in many of these letters ; she is called " My 
lady," and her name is always linked to expres- 
sions of tenderness and esteem. Her father, 
Henry Rich, Lord Holland, the second son of the 
Earl of Warwick, has found place in sterner his- 
tory than this. He was concerned in a rising in 
1648, when the King was in the Isle of Wight, the 
object of which was to rescue and restore the 
royal prisoner. This rising, like Sir Thomas 
Peyton's, miscarried, and he suffered defeat at 
Kingston-on-Thames, on July 7th of that year. 
He was pursued, taken prisoner, and kept in the 



Early Letters 39 

Tower until after the King's execution. Then 
he was brought to trial, and, in accordance with 
the forms and ceremonies of justice, adjudged to 
death. His head was struck off before the gate 
of Westminster Hall one cold March morning in 
the following year, and by his side died Capel 
and the Duke of Hamilton. By marriage he ac- 
quired Holland House, Kensington, which after- 
wards passed by purchase into the hands of a 
very different Lord Holland, and has become 
famous among the houses of London. Of his 
daughter, Lady Diana, I can learn nothing but 
that she died unmarried. She seems to have 
been of a lively, vivacious temperament, and 
very popular with the other sex. There is a 
slight clue to her character in the following scrap 
of letter-writing still preserved among some old 
manuscript papers of the Hutton family. She 
writes to Mr. Hutton to escort her in the Park, 
adding — " This, I am sure, you will do, because I 
am a friend to the tobacco-box, and such, I am 
sure, Mr. Hutton will have more respect for than 
for any other account that could be pretended 
unto by 

" Your humble servant." 

This, with Dorothy's praise, gives us a cheer- 
ful opinion of Lady Diana, of whom we must al- 
ways wish to know more. 

January ^^nd [1653]. 
Sir, — Not to confirm you in your belief in 
dreams, but to avoid your reproaches, I will tell 
you a pleasant one of mine. The night before I 



40 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

received your first letter, I dreamt one brought 
me a packet, and told me it was from you. I, 
that remembered you were by your own appoint- 
ment to be in Italy at that time, asked the mes- 
senger where he had it, who told me my lady, 
your mother, sent him with it to me ; then my 
memory failed me a little, for I forgot you had 
told me she was dead, and meant to give her 
many humble thanks if ever I were so happy as 
to see her. When I had opened the letter I 
found in it two rings ; one was, as I remember, 
an emerald doublet, but broken in the carriage, I 
suppose, as it might well be, coming so far ; 
t'other was plain gold, with the longest and the 
strangest posy that ever was ; half on't was 
Italian, which for my life I could not guess at, 
though I spent much time about it ; the rest was 
" there was a Marriage in Cana of Galilee^'' 
which, though it was Scripture, I had not that 
reverence for it in my sleep that I should have 
had, I think, if I had been awake ; for in earnest 
the oddness on't put me into that violent laugh- 
ing that I waked myself with it ; and as a just 
punishment upon me from that hour to this I 
could never learn whom those rings were for, 
nor what was in the letter besides. This is but 
as extravagant as yours, for it is as likely that 
your mother should send me letters as that I 
should make a journey to see poor people 



Early Letters 41 

hanged, or that your teeth should drop out at 
this age. 

And to remove the opinions you have of my 
niceness, or being hard to please, let me assure 
you I am far from desiring my husband should 
be fond of me at threescore, that I would not 
have him so at all. 'Tis true I should be glad to 
have him always kind, and know no reason why 
he should be wearier of being my master, than 
he was of being my servant. But it is very pos- 
sible I may talk ignorantly of marriage ; when I 
come to make sad experiments on it in my own 
person I shall know more, and say less, for fear 
of disheartening others (since 'tis no advantage 
to foreknow a misfortune that cannot be avoided), 
and for fear of being pitied, which of all things 
I hate. Lest you should be of the same humour 
I will not pity you, lame as you are ; and to 
speak truth, if you did like it, you should not 
have it, for you do not deserve it. Would any 
one in the world, but you, make such haste for a 
new cold before the old had left him ; in a year, 
too, when mere colds kill as many as a plague 
used to do? "Well, seriously, either resolve to 
have more care of yourself, or I renounce my 
friendship; and as a certain king (that my 
learned knight is very well acquainted with), 
who, seeing one of his confederates in so happy 
a condition as it was not likely to last, sent his 



42 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

ambassador presently to break off the league be- 
twixt them, lest he should be obliged to mourn 
the change of his fortune if he continued his 
friend ; so I, with a great deal more reason, do 
declare that I will no longer be a friend to one 
that's none to himself, nor apprehend the loss of 
what you hazard every day at tennis. They had 
served you well enough if they had crammed a 
dozen ounces of that medicine down your throat 
to have made you remember a quinzy. 

But I have done, and am now at leisure to tell 
you that it is that daughter of my Lord of Hol- 
land (who makes, as you say, so many sore eyes 
with looking on her) that is here ; and if I know 
her at all, or have any judgment, her beauty is 
the least of her excellences. And now I speak 
of her, she has given me the occasion to make a 
request to you ; it will come very seasonably 
after my chiding, and I have great reason to ex- 
pect you should be in the humour of doing any- 
thing for me. She says that seals are much in 
fashion, and by showing me some that she has, 
has set me a-longing for some too ; such as are 
oldest and oddest are most prized, and if you 
know anybody that is lately come out of Italy, 
'tis ten to one but they have a store, for they are 
very common there. I do remember you once 
sealed a letter to me with as fine a one as I have 
seen. It was a Neptune, I think, riding upon a 



Early Letters 43 

dolphin ; but I'm afraid it was not yours, for I 
saw it no more. My old Koman head is a pres- 
ent for a prince. If such things come in your 
way, pray remember me. I am sorry my new 
carrier makes you rise so early, 'tis not good for 
your cold ; how might we do that you might lie 
a-bed and yet I have your letter ? You must use 
to write before he comes, I think, that it may be 
sure to be ready against he goes. In earnest 
consider on't, and take some course that your 
health and my letters may be both secured, for 
the loss of either would be very sensible to 

Your humble. 

Letter 5. — Sir Justinian is the lover here de- 
scribed. He had four daughters, and it is one 
of Dorothy's favourite jests to offer Temple a 
mother-in-law's good word if he will pay court 
to one of them when she has married the " Em- 
peror." 

Sir, — Since you are so easy to please, sure I 
shall not miss it, and if my idle dreams and 
thoughts will satisfy you, I am to blame if you 
want long letters. To begin this, let me tell you 
I had not forgot you in 3'^ our absence. I always 
meant you one of my daughters. You should 
have had your choice, and, trust me, they say 
some of them are handsome; but since things 
did not succeed, I thought to have said nothing 



44 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

on't, lest you should imagine I expected thanks 
for my good intention, or rather lest you should 
be too much affected with the thought of what 
you have lost by my imprudence. It would have 
been a good strengthening to my Party (as you 
say) ; but, in earnest, it was not that I aimed at, 
I only desired to have it in my power to oblige 
you ; and 'tis certain I had proved a most excel- 
lent mother-in-law. Oh, my conscience ! we 
should all have joined against him as the com- 
mon enemy, for those poor young wenches are 
as weary of his government as I could have been. 
He gives them such precepts, as they say my 
Lord of Dorchester gives his wife, and keeps 
them so much prisoners to a vile house he has in 
Northamptonshire, that if but once I had let 
them loose, the}'' and his learning would have 
been sufficient to have made him mad without 
my help ; but his good fortune would have it 
otherwise, to which I will leave him, and pro- 
ceed to give you some reasons why the other 
motion was not accepted on. The truth is, I had 
not that longing to ask a mother-in-law's bless- 
ing which you say you should have had, for I 
knew mine too well to think she could make a 
good one ; besides, I was not so certain of his 
nature as not to doubt whether she might not 
corrupt it, nor so confident of his kindness as to 
assure myself that it would last longer than 



Early Letters 45 

other people of his age and humour. I am sorry 
to hear he looks ill, though I think there is no 
great danger of him. 'Tis but a fit of an ague 
he has got, that the next charm cures, yet he 
will be apt to fall into it again upon a new occa- 
sion, and one knoAvs not how it may work upon 
his thin body if it comes too often ; it spoiled his 
beauty, sure, before I knew him, for I could 
never see it, or else (which is as likely) I do not 
know it when I see it ; besides that, I never look 
for it in men. It was nothing that I expected 
made me refuse these, but something that I 
feared ; and, seriously, I find I want courage to 
marry where I do not like. If we should once 
come to disputes I know who would have the 
worst on't, and I have not faith enough to be- 
lieve a doctrine that is often preach'd, which is, 
that though at first one has no kindness for them^ 
yet it will grow strongly after marriage. Let 
them trust to it that think good ; for my part, I 
am clearly of opinion (and shall die in't), that, 
as the more one sees and knows a person that 
one likes, one has still the more kindness for 
them, so, on the other side, one is but the more 
weary of, and the more averse to, an unpleasant 
humour for having it perpetually by one. And 
though I easily believe that to marry one for 
whom we have already some affection will infi- 
nitely increase that kindness, yet I shall never 



46 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

be persuaded that marriage has a charm to raise 
love out of nothing, much less out of dislike. 

This is next to telling you what I dreamed and 
when I rise, but you have promised to be con- 
tent with it. I would now, if I could, tell you 
when I shall be in town, but I am engaged to 
my Lady Diana Rich, my Lord of Holland's 
daughter (who lies at a gentlewoman's hard by 
me for sore eyes), that I will not leave the coun- 
try till she does. She is so much a stranger here, 
and finds so little company, that she is glad of 
mine till her eyes will give her leave to look out 
better. They are mending, and she hopes to be 
at London before the end of this next term ; and 
so do I, though I shall make but a short stay, for 
all my business there is at an end when I have 
seen you, and told you my stories. And, indeed, 
my brother is so perpetually from home, that I 
can be very little, unless I would leave my father 
altogether alone, which would not be well. We 
hear of great disorders at your masks, but no 
particulars, only they say the Spanish gravity 
was much discomposed. I shall expect the rela- 
tion from you at your best leisure, and pray give 
me an account how my medicine agrees with 
your cold. This if you can read it, for 'tis 
strangely scribbled, will be enough to answer 
yours, which is not very long this week ; and I 
am grown so provident that I will not lay out 



Marly Letters 47 

more than I receive, but I am just withal, and 
therefore you know how to make mine longer 
when you please ; though, to speak truth, if I 
should make this so, you would hardly have it 
this week, for 'tis a good while since 'twas call'd 
for. 

Your humble servant. 

Letter 6. — The journey that Temple is about 
to take may be a projected journey with the 
Swedish Embassy, which was soon to set out. 
Temple was, apparently, on the look-out for some 
employment, and we hear at different times of 
his projected excursions into foreign lands. As a 
matter of fact, he stayed in and near London un- 
til the spring of 1654, when he went to Ireland 
with his father, who was then reinstated in his 
office of Master of the Rolls. 

Whether the Mr. Grey here written of made 
love to one or both of the ladies — Jane Seymour 
and Anne Percy — it is difficult now to say. I 
have been able to learn nothing more on the sub- 
ject than Dorothy tells us. This, however, we 
know for certain, that they both married else- 
where ; Lady Jane Seymour, the Duke of Somer- 
set's daughter, marrying Lord Clifford of Lones- 
borough, the son of the Earl of Burleigh, and 
living to 1679, when she was buried in West- 
minster Abbey. Poor Lady Anne Percy, 
daughter of the Earl of Northumberland, and 
niece of the faithless Lady Carlisle of whom we 
read in these letters, was already married at this 
date to Lord Stanhope, Lord Chesterfield's heir. 



48 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

She died — probably in childbed — in November 
of next year (1654), and was buried at Pet worth 
with her infant son. 

Lady Anne Wentworth was the daughter of 
the famous and ill-fated Earl of Strafford. She 
married Lord Kockingham. 

The reader will remember that " my lady " is 
Lady Diana Kich. 

March Uh [1653]. 
Sir, — I know not how to oblige so civil a 
person as you are more than by giving you the 
occasion of serving a fair lady. In sober earnest, 
I know you will not think it a trouble to let your 
boy deliver these books and this enclosed letter 
where it is directed for my lady, whom I would, 
the fainest in the world, have you acquainted 
with, that you might judge whether I had not 
reason to say somebody was to blame. But had 
you reason to be displeased that I said a change 
in you would be much more pardonable than in 
him ? Certainly you had not. I spake it very 
innocently, and out of a great sense how much 
she deserves more than anybody else. I shall 
take heed though hereafter what I write, since 
you are so good at raising doubts to persecute 
yourself withal, and shall condemn my own easy 
faith no more ; for me 'tis a better-natured and 
a less fault to believe too much than to distrust 
where there is no cause. If you were not so apt 
to quarrel, I would tell you that I am glad to 



Early Letters 40 

hear your journey goes forwarder, but you would 
presently imagine that 'tis because I would be 
glad if you were gone ; need I say that 'tis be- 
cause I prefer your interest much before my 
own, because I would not have you lose so good 
a diversion and so pleasing an entertainment (as 
in all likelihood this voyage will be to you), and 
because the sooner you go, the sooner I may 
hope for your return. If it be necessary, I will 
confess all this, and something more, which is, 
that notwithstanding all my gallantry and reso- 
lution, 'tis much for my credit that my courage 
is put to no greater a trial than parting with you 
at this distance. But you are not going yet 
neither, and therefore we'll leave the discourse 
on't till then, if you please, for I find no great 
entertainment in't. And let me ask you whether 
it be possible that Mr. Grey makes love, they say 
he does, to my Lady Jane Seymour ? If it were 
expected that one should give a reason for their 
passions, Avhat could he say for himself? He 
would not offer, sure, to make us believe my 
Lady Jane a lovelier person than my Lady Anne 
Percy. I did not think I should have lived to 
have seen his frozen heart melted, 'tis the great- 
est conquest she will ever make ; may it be happy 
to her, but in my opinion he has not a good- 
natured look. The younger brother was a serv- 
ant, a great while, to my fair neighbour, but 



50 Love Letters f^^om Dorothy Osborne 

could not be received ; and in earnest I could not 
blame her. I was his confidante and heard him 
make his addresses ; not that I brag of the favour 
he did me, for anybody might have been so that 
had been as often there, and he was less scru- 
pulous in that point than one would have been 
that had had less reason. But in my life I never 
heard a man say more, nor less to the purpose ; 
and if his brother have not a better gift in court- 
ship, he will owe my lady's favour to his fortune 
rather than to his address. My Lady Anne 
Wentworth I hear is marrying, but I cannot 
learn to whom ; nor is it easy to guess who is 
worthy of her. In my judgment she is, without 
dispute, the finest lady I know (one always ex- 
cepted) ; not that she is at all handsome, but in- 
finitely virtuous and discreet, of a sober and very 
different humour from most of the young people 
of these times, but has as much wit and is as 
good company as anybody that ever I saw. 
What would you give that I had but the wit to 
know when to make an end of my letters ? 
Never anybody was persecuted with such long 
epistles ; but you will pardon my unwillingness 
to leave you, and notwithstanding all your little 
doubts, believe that I am very much 
Your faithful friend 

and humble servant, 

D. OSBOENE. 



Early Letters 51 

Letter 7. — There seem to have been two car- 
riers bringing letters to Dorothy at this time, 
Harrold and Collins ; we hear something of each 
of them in the following letters. Those who 
have seen the present-day carriers in some un- 
awakened market-place in the Midlands, — heavy, 
rumbling, two-horse cars of huge capacity, whose 
three miles an hour is fast becoming too sluggish 
for their enfranchised clients ; those who have 
jolted over the frozen ruts of a fen road, behind 
their comfortable Flemish horses, and heard the 
gossip of the farmers and their wives, the grunts 
of the discontented baggage pig, and the en- 
couraging shouts of the carrier ; those, in a word, 
who have travelled in a Lincolnshire carrier's 
cart, have, I fancy, a more correct idea of 
Dorothy's postmen and their conveyances than 
any I could quote from authority or draw from 
imagination. 

Lord Lisle was the son of Robert Sidney, Earl 
of Leicester, and brother of the famous Algernon. 
He sat in the Long Parliament for Yarmouth, in 
the Isle of Wight, and afterwards became a 
member of the Upper House. Concerning his 
embassage to Sweden this is again proposed to 
him in September 1653, but, as we read in the 
minutes of the Council, " when he was desired 
to proceed, finding himself out of health, he de- 
sired to be excused, whereupon Council still wish- 
ing to send the embassy — the Queen of Sweden 
being favourably inclined to the Commonwealth 
— pitched upon Lord Whitelocke, who was will- 
ing to go." 

To Lady Sunderland and Mr. Smith there are 



52 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

several amusing references in these letters. Lady 
Sunderland was the daughter of the Earl of 
Leicester, and sister of Algernon Sydney. She 
was born in 1620, and at the age of nineteen 
married Henry Lord Spencer, who was killed in 
the battle of Newbury in 1642. After her hus- 
band's death, she retired to Brington in North- 
amptonshire, until, wearied with the heavy load 
of housekeeping, she came to live with her father 
and mother at Penshurst. In the Earl of Leices- 
ter's journal, under date Thursday, July 8th, 
1652, we find : — " My daughter Spencer was 
married to Sir Kobert Smith at Penshurst, my 
wife being present with my daughters Strang- 
ford, and Lacy Pelham, Algernon and Eobin 
Sydney, etc. ; but I was in London." From this 
we may imagine the Earl did not greatly approve 
the match. The ubiquitous Evelyn was there, 
too, to see " ye marriage of my old fellow col- 
legian Mr. Robt. Smith ; " and the place being 
full of company, he probably enjoyed himself 
vastly. Lady Sunderland was the Sacharissa 
of Waller the poet. 

Sir, — I am so great a lover of my bed myself 
that I can easily apprehend the trouble of rising 
at four o'clock these cold mornings. In earnest, 
I'm troubled that you should be put to it, and 
have chid the carrier for coming out so soon ; he 
swears to me he never comes out of town before 
eleven o'clock, and that my Lady Paynter's 
footman (as he calls him) brings her letters two 
hours sooner than he needs to do, I told him he 



Early Letters 83 

was gone one day before the letter came ; he 
vows he was not, and that your old friend Collins 
never brought letters of my Lady Paynter's in 
his life; and, to speak truth, Collins did not 
bring me that letter. I had it from this Harrold 
two hours before Collins came. Yet it is possible 
all that he says may not be so, for I have known 
better men than he lie ; therefore if Collins be 
more for your ease or conveniency, make use of 
him hereafter. I know not whether my letter 
were kind or not, but I'll swear yours was not, 
and am sure mine was meant to be so. It is not 
kind in you to desire an increase of my friend- 
ship ; that is to doubt it is not as great already 
as it can be, than which you cannot do me a 
greater injury. 'Tis my misfortune indeed that 
it lies not in my power to give you better testi- 
mony on't than words, otherwise I should soon 
convince you that 'tis the best quality I have, 
and that where I own a friendship, I mean so 
perfect a one, as time can neither lessen nor in- 
crease. If I said nothing of my coming to town, 
'twas because I had nothing to say that I thought 
you would like to hear. For I do not know that 
ever I desired anything earnestly in my life, but 
'twas denied me, and I am many times afraid to 
wish a thing merely lest my Fortune should take 
that occasion to use me ill. She cannot see, and 
therefore I may venture to write that I intend 



54 Love Letters from, Dorothy Osborne 

to be in London if it be possible on Friday or 
Saturday come sennight. Be sure you do not 
read it aloud, lest she hear it, and prevent me, 
or drive you avray before I come. It is so like 
my luck, too, that you should be going I know 
not whither again ; but trust me, I have looked 
for it ever since I heard you were come home. 
You will laugh, sure, when I shall tell you that 
hearing that my Lord Lisle was to go ambassador 
into Sweden, I reraember'd your father's ac- 
quaintance in that family with an apprehension 
that he might be in the humour of sending you 
with him. But for God's sake whither is it that 
you go ? I would not willingly be at such a 
loss again as I was after your Yorkshire journey. 
If it prove as long a one, I shall not forget you ; 
but in earnest I shall be so possessed with a strong 
splenetic fancy that I shall never see you more 
in this world, as all the waters in England will 
not cure. Well, this is a sad story ; we'll have 
no more on't. 

I humbly thank you for your offer of your 
head ; but if you were an emperor, I should not 
be so bold with you as to claim your promise ; 
you might find twenty better employments for't. 
Only with your gracious leave, I think I should 
be a little exalted with remembering that you 
had been once my friend ; 'twould more endanger 
my growing proud than being Sir Justinian's 



Early Letters 55 

mistress, and yet he thought me pretty well in- 
clin'd to't then. Lord ! what would I give that 
I had a Latin letter of his for you, that he writ 
to a great friend at Oxford, where he gives him 
a long and learned character of me ; 'twould 
serve you to laugh at this seven years. If I re- 
member what was told me on't, the worst of my 
faults was a height (he would not call it pride) 
that was, as he had heard, the humour of my 
family ; and the best of my commendations was, 
that I was capable of being company and con- 
versation for him. But you do not tell me yet 
how you found him out. If I had gone about to 
conceal him, I had been sweetly serv'd. I shall 
take heed of you hereafter ; because there is no 
very great likelihood of your being an emperor, 
or that, if you were, I should have your head. 

I have sent into Italy for seals ; 'tis to be hoped 
by that time mine come over, they may be of 
fashion again, for 'tis an humour that your old 
acquaintance Mr. Smith and his lady have 
brought up ; they say she wears twenty strung 
upon a ribbon, like the nuts boys play withal, 
and I do not hear of anything else. Mr. Howard 
presented his mistress but a dozen such seals as 
are not to be valued as times now go. But a 
jprojpos of Monsr. Smith, what a scape has he 
made of my Lady Barbury ; and who would e'er 
have dreamt he should have had my Lady 



56 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

Sunderland, though he be a very fine gentleman, 
and does more than deserve her. I think I shall 
never forgive her one thing she said of him, 
which was that she married him out of pity ; it 
was the pitifuUest saying that ever I heard, and 
made him so contemptible that I should not have 
married him for that reason. This is a strange 
letter, sure, I have not time to read it over, but 
I have said anything that came into my head to 
put you out of your dumps. For God's sake be 
in better humour, and assure yourself I am as 
much as you can wish. 

Your faithful friend and servant. 

Letter 8. — The name of Algernon Sydney oc- 
curs more than once in these pages, and it is 
therefore only right to remind the reader of some 
of the leading facts in his life. He was born in 
1622, and was the second son of Eobert Earl of 
Leicester. He was educated in Paris and Italy, 
and first served in the army in Ireland. On his 
recall to England he espoused the popular cause, 
and fought on that side in the battle of Marston 
Moor. In 1651 he was elected a member of the 
Council of State, and in this situation he con- 
tinued to act until 1653. It is unnecessary to 
mention his republican sympathies, and after the 
dismissal of the Parliament, his future actions 
concern us but little. He was arrested, tried, 
and executed in 1683, on the pretence of being 
concerned in the Rye House Plot. 

4-rundel Howard was Henry, second son of the 



Early Letters 57 

Earl of Arundel. His father died July 12, 1652. 
Dorothy would call him Arundel Howard, to 
distinguish him from the Earl of Berkshire's 
family. 

SiK, — You have made me so rich as I am able 
to help my neighbours. There is a little head 
cut in an onyx that I take to be a very good one, 
and the dolphin is (as you say) the better for be- 
ing cut less ; the oddness of the figures makes 
the beauty of these things. If you saw one that 
my brother sent my Lady Diana last week, you 
would believe it were meant to fright people 
withal ; 'twas brought out of the Indies, and cut 
there for an idol's head : they took the devil him- 
self for their pattern that did it, for in my life I 
never saw so ugly a thing, and yet she is as fond 
on't as if it were as lovely as she herself is. Her 
eyes have not the flames they have had, nor is 
she like (I am afraid) to recover them here ; but 
were they irrecoverably lost, the beauty of her 
mind were enough to make her outshine every- 
body else, and she would still be courted by all 
that knew how to value her, like la helle aveugle 
that was Philip the 2nd of France his mistress. 
I am wholly ignorant of the story you mention, 
and am confident you are not well inform'd, for 
'tis impossible she should ever have done any- 
thing that were unhandsome. If I knew who 
the person were that is concern'd in't, she allows 



58 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

me so much freedom with her, that I could easily 
put her upon the discourse, and I do not think 
she would use much of disguise in it towards me. 
I should have guessed it Algernon Sydney, but 
that I cannot see in him that likelihood of a for- 
tune which you seem to imply by saying 'tis not 
present. But if you should mean by that, that 
'tis possible his wit and good parts may raise him 
to one, you must pardon if I am not of your 
opinion, for I do not think these are times for 
anybody to expect preferment in that deserves 
it, and in the best 'twas ever too uncertain for a 
wise body to trust to. But I am altogether of 
your mind, that my Lady Sunderland is not to 
be followed in her marrying fashion, and that 
Mr. Smith never appear'd less her servant than in 
desiring it ; to speak truth, it was convenient for 
neither of them, and in meaner people had been, 
plain undoing one another, which I cannot un- 
derstand to be kindness of either side. She has 
lost by it much of the repute she had gained by 
keeping herself a widow ; it was then believed 
that wit and discretion were to be reconciled in 
her person that have so seldom been persuaded 
to meet in anybody else. But we are all mortal. 
I did not mean that Howard. 'Twas Arundel 
Howard. And the seals were some remainders 
that showed his father's love to antiquities, and 
therefore cost him dear enough if that would 



Early Letters 59 

make them good. I am sorry I cannot follow 
your counsel in keeping fair with Fortune. I 
am not apt to suspect without just cause, but in 
earnest if I once find anybody faulty towards 
me, they lose me for ever ; I have forsworn be- 
ing twice deceived by the same person. For 
God's sake do not say she has the spleen, I shall 
hate it worse than ever I did, nor that it is a 
disease of the wits, I shall think you abuse me, 
for then I am sure it would not be mine ; but 
were it certain that they went together always, 
I dare swear there is nobody so proud of their 
wit as to keep it upon such terms, but would be 
glad after they had endured it a while to let them 
both go as they came. I know nothing yet that 
is likely to alter my resolution of being in town 
on Saturday next ; but I am uncertain where I 
shall be, and therefore it will be best that I 
send you word when I am there. I should be 
glad to see you sooner, but that I do not know 
myself what company I may have with me. I 
meant this letter longer when I begun it, but an 
extreme cold that I have taken lies so in my head, 
and makes it ache so violently, that I hardly see 
what I do. I'll e'en to bed as soon as I have 
told you that I am very much 

Your faithful friend 

and servant, 

D. Osborne. 



CHAPTEK III 

LIFE AT CHICKSANDS. 1653 

Letter 9. — Temple's sister here mentioned was 
his only sister Martha, who married Sir Thomas 
Giffard in 1662, and was left a widow within two 
months of her marriage. She afterwards lived 
with Temple and his wife, was a great favourite 
with them, and their confidential friend. Lady 
Giffard has left a manuscript life of her brother 
from which the historian Courtenay deigned to 
extract some information, whereby we in turn 
have benefited. She outlived both her brother 
and his wife, to carry on a warlike encounter 
with her brother's amanuensis, Mr. Jonathan 
Swift, over Temple's literary remains. Esther 
Johnson, the unfortunate Stella, was Lady Gif- 
fard's maid. 

CUojpdtre and Le Grand Cyrus appear to have 
been Dorothy's literary companions at this date. 
She would read these in the original French ; and, 
as she tells us somewhere, had a scorn of transla- 
tions. Both these romances were much admired, 
even by people of taste ; a thing difficult to under- 
stand, until we remember that Fielding, the first 
and greatest English novelist, was yet unborn, 
and novels, as we know them, non-existing. Both 
the romances found translators ; Cyrus, in one 
mysterious F, G. Gerit — the translation was pub- 

60 



Life at Chichsands 61 

lished in this year ; Cleopdtre, in Richard Love- 
day, an elegant letter-writer of this time. 

ArtaTTienes, or Le Grand Cyrus, the master- 
piece of Mademoiselle Madeleine de Scuderi, is 
contained in no less than ten volumes, each of 
which in its turn has many books ; it is, in fact, 
more a collection of romances than a single ro- 
mance. La Gleojpdtre, a similar work, was orig- 
inally published in twenty-three volumes of 
twelve parts, each part containing three or four 
books. It is but a collection of short stories. 
Its author rejoiced in the romantic title of 
Gauthier de Costes Chevalier Seigneur de la Cal- 
prenede ; he published CUojpdtre in 1642 ; he was 
the author of other romances, and some tragedies, 
noted only for their worthlessness. Even Riche- 
lieu, " quoiqu' admirateur indulgent de la medi- 
ocrite," could not stand Calprenede's tragedies. 
Heine Marguerite is probably the translation by 
Robert Codrington of the Memorials of Margaret 
of Valois, first wife of Henri lY. Bussy is a 
servant of the Duke of Avenson, Margaret's 
brother, with whom Margaret is very intimate. 

Of Lady Sunderland and Mr. Smith we have 
already sufficient knowledge. As for Sir Justin- 
ian, we are not to think he was already married ; 
the reference to his " new wife " is merely jocu- 
lar, meaning his new wife when he shall get one ; 
for Sir Justinian is still wife-hunting, and comes 
back to renew his suit with Dorothy after this 
date. " Your fellow-servant," who is as often 
called Jane, appears to have been a friend and 
companion of Dorothy, in a somewhat lower rank 
of life. Mrs. Goldsmith, mentioned in a subse- 



62 Loiie Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

quent letter, — wife of Daniel Goldsmith, the rec- 
tor of Campton, in which parish Chicksands was 
situated, — acted as chaperon or duenna compan- 
ion to Dorothy, and Jane was, it seems to me, in 
a similar position ; only, being a younger woman 
than the rector's wife, she was more the compan- 
ion and less the duenna. The servants and com- 
panions of ladies of that date were themselves 
gentlewomen of good breeding. Waller writes 
verses to Mrs. Braughton, servant to Sacharissa, 
commencing his lines, " Fair fellow-servant." 
Temple, had he written verse to his mistress, 
would probably have left us some " Lines to 
Jane." 

There is in Campton Church a tablet erected 
to Daniel Goldsmith, " Ecclesiae de Campton Pas- 
tor idem et Patronus ; " also to Maria Goldsmith, 
" uxor dilectissima." This is erected by Maria's 
faithful sister, Jane Wright ; and if the astute 
reader shall think fit to agree with me in believ- 
ing Temple's " fellow-servant " to be this Jane 
Wright on such slender evidence and slight thread 
of argument, he may well do so. Failing this, 
all search after Jane will, I fear, prove futile at 
this distant date. There are constant references 
to Jane in the letters. " Her old woman," in the 
same passage, is, of course, a jocular allusion to 
Dorothy herself ; and " the old knight " is, I be- 
lieve, Sir Robert Cook, a Bedfordshire gentleman, 
of whom nothing is known except that he was 
knighted at Ampthill, July 21st, 1621. We hear 
some little more of him from Dorothy. 

Note well the signature of this and following 
letters ; it will help us to discover what passed 



Life at Chicksands 63 

between the friends in London. For my own 
part, I do not think Dorothy means that she has 
ceased to \)q faithful in that she has become " his 
affectionate friend and servant." 

Sir, — I was so kind as to write to you by the 
coachman, and let me tell you I think 'twas the 
greatest testimony of my friendship that I could 
give you ; for, trust me, I was so tired with my 
journey, so dowd with my cold, and so out of 
humour with our parting, that I should have done 
it with great unwillingness to anybody else. I 
lay abed all next day to recover myself, and rised 
a Thursday to receive your letter with the more 
ceremony. I found no fault with the ill writing, 
'twas but too easy to read, methought, for I am 
sure I had done much sooner than I could have 
wished. But, in earnest, I was heartily troubled 
to find you in so much disorder. I would not 
have you so kind to me as to be cruel to yourself, 
in whom I am more concerned. No ; for God's 
sake, let us not make afflictions of such things as 
these ; I am afraid we shall meet with too many 
real ones. 

I am glad your journey holds, because I think 
'twill be a good diversion for you this summer ; 
but I admire your father's patience, that lets you 
rest with so much indifference when there is such 
a fortune offered. I'll swear I have great scru- 
ples of conscience myself on the point, and am 



64 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

much afraid I am not your friend if I am any 
part of the occasion that hinders you from ac- 
cepting it. Yet I am sure my intentions towards 
you are very innocent and good, for you are one 
of those whose interests I shall ever prefer much 
above my own ; and you are not to thank me for 
it, since, to speak truth, I secure my own by it ; 
for I defy my ill fortune to make me miserable, 
unless she does it in the persons of my friends. I 
wonder how your father came to know I was in 
town, unless my old friend, your cousin Ham- 
mond, should tell him. Pray, for my sake, be a 
very obedient son ; aU your faults will be laid to 
my charge else, and, alas ! I have too many of 
ray own. 

You say nothing how your sister does, which 
makes me hope there is no more of danger in her 
sickness. Pray, when it may be no trouble to 
her, tell her how much I am her servant ; and 
have a care of yourself this cold weather. I have 
read your Reine Marguerite, and will return it 
you when you please. If you will have my 
opinion of her, I think she had a good deal of 
wit, and a great deal of patience for a woman of 
so high a spirit. She speaks with too much in- 
difference of her husband's several amours, and 
commends Bussy as if she were a little concerned 
in him. I think her a better sister than a wife, 
and believe she might have made a better wife to 



Life at Chichsands 65 

a better husband. But the story of Mademoiselle 
de Tournon is so sad, that when I had read it 
I was able to go no further, and was fain to take 
up something else to divert myself withal. Have 
you read CUojpdtre f I have six tomes on't here 
that I can lend you if you have not ; there are 
some stories in't you will like, I believe. But 
what an ass am I to think you can be idle enough 
at London to read romance ! No, I'll keep them 
till you come hither ; here they may be welcome 
to you for want of better company. Yet, that 
you may not imagine we are quite out of the 
world here, and so be frighted from coming, I 
can assure you we are seldom without news, such 
as it is ; and at this present we do abound with 
stories of my Lady Sunderland and Mr. Smith ; 
with what reverence he approaches her, and how 
like a gracious princess she receives him, that 
they say 'tis worth one's going twenty miles to 
see it. All our ladies are mightily pleased with 
the example, but I do not find that the men in- 
tend to follow it, and I'll undertake Sir Solomon 
Justinian wishes her in the Indias, for fear she 
should pervert his new wife. 

Your fellow-servant kisses your hands, and 
says, " If you mean to make love to her old 
woman this is the best time you can take, for she 
is dying ; this cold weather kills her, I think." 
It has undone me, I am sure, in killing an old 



QQ Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

knight that I have been waiting for this seven 
year, and now he dies and will leave me nothing, 
I believe, but leaves a rich widow for somebody. 
I think you had best come awooing to her ; I 
have a good interest in her, and it shall be all 
employed in your service if you think fit to make 
any addresses there. But to be sober now again, 
for God's sake send me word how your journey 
goes forward, when you think you shall begin it, 
and how long it may last, when I may expect 
your coming this way ; and of all things, remem- 
ber to provide a safe address for your letters 
when you are abroad. This is a strange, con- 
fused one, I believe ; for I have been called away 
twenty times, since I sat down to write it, to my 
father, who is not well ; but you will pardon it — 
we are past ceremony, and excuse me if I say 
no more now but that I am toujours le mestne^ 
that is, ever 

Your affectionate 

friend and servant. 

Letter 10. — Dorothy is suffering from the spleen, 
a disease as common to-day as then, though we 
have lost the good name for it. This and the 
ague plague her continually. My Lord Lisle's 
proposed embassy to Sweden is, we see, still de- 
layed ; ultimately Bulstrode Whitelocke is chosen 
ambassador. 

Dorothy's cousin Molle, here mentioned, seems 
to have been an old bachelor, who spent his time 



Life at ChicTcsands 67 

at one country house or another, visiting his 
country friends ; and playing the bore not a 
little, I should fear, with his gossip and imagi- 
nary ailments. 

Temple's father was at this time trying to ar- 
range a match for him with a certain Mrs. Ch. as 
Dorothy calls her. Courtenay thinks she may be 
one Mistress Chambers, an heiress, who ulti- 
mately married Temple's brother John, and this 
conjecture is here followed, 

SiE, — Your last letter came like a pardon to 
one upon the block. I had given over the hopes 
on't, having received my letters by the other 
carrier, who was always [wont] to be last. The 
loss put me hugely out of order, and you would 
have both pitied and laughed at me if you could 
have seen how woodenly I entertained the widow, 
who came hither the day before, and surprised 
me very much. Not being able to say anything, 
I got her to cards, and there with a great deal of 
patience lost my money to her; — or rather I 
gave it as my ransom. In the midst of our play, 
in comes my blessed boy with your letter, and, 
in earnest, I was not able to disguise the joy it 
gave me, though one was by that is not much 
your friend, and took notice of a blush that for 
my life I could not keep back. I put up the 
letter in my pocket, and made what haste I could 
to lose the money I had left, that I might take 
occasion to go fetch some more ; but I did not 



68 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

make such haste back again, I can assure you. I 
took time enough to have coined myself some 
money if I had had the art on't, and left my 
brother enough to make all his addresses to her 
if he were so disposed. I know not whether he 
was pleased or not, but I am sure I was. 

You make so reasonable demands that 'tis not 
fit you should be denied. You ask my thoughts 
but at one hour ; you will think me bountiful, I 
hope, when I shall tell you that I know no hour 
when you have them not. No, in earnest, my 
very dreams are yours, and I have got such a 
habit of thinking of you that any other thought 
intrudes and proves uneasy to me. I drink your 
health every morning in a drench that would 
poison a horse I believe, and 'tis the only way I 
have to persuade myself to take it. 'Tis the in- 
fusion of steel, and makes me so horridly sick, 
that every day at ten o'clock I am making my 
will and taking leave of all my friends. You 
will believe you are not forgot then. They tell 
me I must take this ugly drink a fortnight, and 
then begin another as bad ; but unless you say 
so too, I do not think I shall. 'Tis worse than 
dying by the half. 

I am glad your father is so kind to you. I 
shall not dispute it with him, because it is much 
more in his power than in mine, but I shall never 
yield that 'tis more in his desire, since he wag 



L\fe at Chicksands 69 

raucli pleased with that which was a truth when 
you told it him, but would have been none if he 
had asked the question sooner. He thought 
there was no danger of you since you were more 
ignorant and less concerned in my being in town 
than he. If I were Mrs. Chambers, he would be 
more my friend ; but, however, I am much his 
servant as he is your father, I have sent you 
your book. And since you are at leisure to con- 
sider the moon, you may be enough to read GUo- 
pdtre, therefore I have sent you three tomes ; 
when you have done with these you shall have 
the rest, and I believe they will please. There is 
a story of Artemise that I will recommend to 
you ; her disposition I like extremely, it has a 
great deal of practical wit ; and if you meet with 
one Brittomart, pray send me word how you like 
him. I am not displeased that my Lord [Lisle] 
makes no more haste, for though I am very will- 
ing you should go the journey for many reasons, 
yet two or three months hence, sure, will be soon 
enough to visit so cold a country, and I would 
not have you endure two winters in one year. 
Besides, I look for my eldest brother and cousin 
Molle here shortly, and I should be glad to have 
nobody to entertain but you, whilst you are 
here. Lord ! that you had the invisible ring, or 
Fortunatus his wishing hat ; now, at this instant, 
you should be here, 



70 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

My brother has gone to wait upon the widow 
homewards, — she that was born to persecute you 
and I, I think. She has so tired me with being 
here but two days, that I do not think I shall 
accept of the offer she made me of living with 
her in case my father dies before I have disposed 
of myself. Yet we are very great friends, and 
for my comfort she says she will come again 
about the latter end of June and stay longer 
with me. My aunt is still in town, kept by her 
business, which I am afraid will not go well, 
they do so delay it ; and my precious uncle does 
so visit her, and is so kind, that without doubt 
some mischief will follow. Do you know his 
son, my cousin Harry ? 'Tis a handsome youth, 
and well-natured, but such a goose ; and she has 
bred him so strangely, that he needs all his ten 
thousand a year. I would fain have him marry 
my Lady Diana, she was his mistress when he 
was a boy. He had more wit then than he has 
now, I think, and I have less wit than he, sure, 
for spending my paper upon him when I have so 
little. Here is hardly room for 

Your affectionate 

friend and servant. 

Letter 11. — It is a curious thing to find the 
Lord General's son among our loyal Dorothy's 
servants ; and to find, moreover, that he will be 
as acceptable to Dorothy as any other, if she 



Life at CKicksands Yl 

may not marry Temple. Henry Cromwell was 
Oliver Cromwell's second son. How Dorothy 
became acquainted with him it is impossible to 
say. Perhaps they met in France. He seems to 
have been entirely unlike his father. Good Mrs. 
Hutchinson calls him " a debauched ungodly 
Cavalier," with other similar expressions of Pres- 
byterian abhorrence; from which we need not 
draw any unkinder conclusion than that he was 
no solemn puritanical soldier, but a man of the 
world, brighter and more courteous than the fre- 
quenters of his father's Council, and therefore 
more acceptable to Dorothy. He was born at 
Huntingdon in 1627, the year of Dorothy's birth. 
He was captain under Harrison in 1647 ; colonel 
in Ireland with his father in 1649 ; and married 
at Kensington Church, on May 10th, 1653, to 
Elizabeth, daughter of Sir Francis Russell of 
Chippenham, Cambridgeshire. He was made 
Lord-Deputy in Ireland in 1657, but he wearied 
of the work of transplanting the Irish and plant- 
ing the new settlers, which, he writes, only 
brought him disquiet of body and mind. This 
led to his retirement from public life in 1658. 
Two years afterwards, at the Restoration, he 
came to live at Spinney Abbey, near Isham, 
Cambridgeshire, and died on the 23rd of March 
1673. These are shortly the facts which remain 
to us of the life of Henry Cromwell, Dorothy's 
favoured servant. 

Sir, — I am so far from thinking you ill-natured 
for wishing I might not outlive you, that I 
should not have thought you at all kind if you 



Y2 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

had done otherwise ; no, in earnest, I was never 
yet so in love with my life but that I could have 
parted with it upon a much less occasion than 
your death, and 'twill be no compliment to you 
to say it would be very uneasy to me then, since 
'tis not very pleasant to me now. Yet you will 
say I take great pains to preserve it, as ill as I 
like it ; but no, I'll swear 'tis not that I intend 
in what I do ; all that I aim at is but to keep 
myself from proving a beast. They do so fright 
me with strange stories of what the spleen will 
bring me to in time, that I am kept in awe with 
them like a child ; they tell me 'twill not leave 
me common sense, that I shall hardly be fit com- 
pany for my own dogs, and that it will end 
either in a stupidness that will make me incapable 
of anything, or fill my head with such whims as 
will make me ridiculous. To prevent this, who 
would not take steel or anything, — though I am 
partly of your opinion that 'tis an ill kind of 
physic. Yet I am confident that I take it the 
safest way, for I do not take the powder, as 
many do, but only lay a piece of steel in white 
wine over night and drink the infusion next 
morning, which one would think were nothing, 
and yet 'tis not to be imagined how sick it makes 
me for an hour or two, and, which is the misery, 
all that time one must be using some kind of ex- 
ercise. Your fellow-servant has a blessed time 



Life at Chicksands Y3 

on't that ever you saw. I make her play at 
shuttlecock with me, and she is the veriest 
bungler at it ever you saw. Then am I ready to 
beat her with the battledore, and grow so pee- 
vish as I grow sick, that I'll undertake she wishes 
there were no steel in England. But then to 
recompense the morning, I am in good humour 
all the day after for joy that I am well again. I 
am told 'twill do me good, and am content to be- 
lieve it ; if it does not, I am but where I was. 

I do not use to forget my old acquaintances. 
Almanzor is as fresh in my memory as if I had 
visited his tomb but yesterday, though it be at 
least seven year agone since. You will believe I 
had not been used to great afflictions when I 
made his story such a one to me, as I cried an 
hour together for him, and was so angry with 
Alcidiana that for my life I could never love her 
after it. You do not tell me whether you re- 
ceived the books I sent you, but I will hope you 
did, because you say nothing to the contrary. 
They are my dear Lady Diana's, and therefore I 
am much concerned that they should be safe. 
And now I speak of her, she is acquainted with 
your aunt, my Lady B., and says all that you 
say of her. If her niece has so much wit, will 
you not be persuaded to like her ; or say she has 
not quite so much, may not her fortune make it 
up ? In earnest, I know not what to say, but if 



74 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

your father does not use all his kindness and all 
his power to make you consider your own ad- 
vantage, he is not like other fathers. Can you 
imagine that he that demands £5000 besides the 
reversion of an estate will like bare £4000 ? 
Such miracles are seldom seen, and you must 
prepare to suffer a strange persecution unless 
you grow conformable ; therefore consider what 
you do, 'tis the part of a friend to advise you. I 
could say a great deal to this purpose, and tell 
you that 'tis not discreet to refuse a good offer, 
nor safe to trust wholly to your own judgment 
in your disposal. I was never better provided 
in my life for a grave admonishing discourse. 
Would you had heard how I have been catechized 
for you, and seen how soberly I sit and answer 
to interrogatories. "Would you think that upon 
examination it is found that you are not an in- 
different person to me ? But the mischief is, 
that what my intentions or resolutions are, is 
not to be discovered, though much pains has 
been taken to collect all scattering circum- 
stances ; and all the probable conjectures that 
can be raised from thence has been urged, to see 
if anything would be confessed. And all this 
done with so much ceremony and compliment, 
so many pardons asked for undertaking to coun- 
sel or inquire, and so great kindness and passion 
for all my interests professed, that I cannot but 



Life at Chichsands t5 

take it well, though I am very weary on't. You, 
are spoken of with the reverence due to a person 
that I seem to like, and for as much as they 
know of you, you do deserve a very good esteem ; 
but your fortune and mine can never agree, and, 
in plain terms, we forfeit our discretions and run 
wilfully upon our own ruins if there be such a 
thought. To all this I make no reply, but that 
if they will needs have it that I am not without 
kindness for you, they must conclude withal that 
'tis no part of my intention to ruin you, and so 
the conference breaks up for that time. All 
this is [from] my friend, that is not yours ; and 
the gentleman that came upstairs in a basket, I 
could tell him that he spends his breath to very 
little purpose, and has but his labour for hia 
pains. Without his precepts my own judgment 
would preserve me from doing anything that 
might be prejudicial to you or unjustifiable to 
the world ; but if these be secured, nothing can 
alter the resolution I have taken of settling my 
whole stock of happiness upon the affection of a 
person that is dear to me, whose kindness I shall 
infinitely prefer before any other consideration 
whatsoever, and I shall not blush to tell you 
that you have made the whole world beside so 
indifferent to me that, if I cannot be yours, they 
may dispose of me how they please. Henry 
Cromwell will be as acceptable to me as any on© 



^6 Love Letters from t>orotliy Osborne 

else. If I may undertake to counsel, I think you 
shall do well to comply with your father as far 
as possible, and not to discover any aversion to 
what he desires further than you can give reason 
for. What his disposition may be I know not ; 
but 'tis that of many parents to judge their chil- 
dren's dislikes to be an humour of approving 
nothing that is chosen for them, which many 
times makes them take up another of denying 
their children all they choose for themselves. I 
find I am in the humour of talking wisely if my 
paper would give me leave. 'Tis great pity here 

is room for no more but 

Tour faithful friend and servant. 

Letter 12. 

Sir, — There shall be two posts this week, for 
my brother sends his groom up, and I am re- 
solved to make some advantage of it. Pray, 
what the paper denied me in your last, let me re- 
ceive by him. Your fellow-servant is a sweet 
jewel to tell tales of me. The truth is, I cannot 
deny but that I have been very careless of my- 
self, but, alas ! who would have been other ? I 
never thought my life worth my care whilst no- 
body was concerned in't but myself ; now I shall 
look upon't as something that you would not 
lose, and therefore shall endeavour to keep it for 
you. But then you must return my kindness 



Life at Chichsands T7 

with the same care of a life that's much dearer 
to me. I shall not be so unreasonable as to de- 
sire that, for my satisfaction, you should deny 
yourself a recreation that is pleasing to you, and 
very innocent, sure, when 'tis not used in excess, 
but I cannot consent you should disorder your- 
self with it, and Jane was certainly in the right 
when she told you I would have chid if I had 
seen you so endanger a health that I am so much 
concerned in. But for what she tell you of my 
melancholy you must not believe ; she thinks no- 
body in good humour unless they laugh perpet- 
ually, as Nan and she does, which I was never 
given to much, and now I have been so long 
accustomed to my own natural dull humour that 
nothing can alter it. 'Tis not that I am sad (for 
as long as you and the rest of my friends are 
well), I thank God I have no occasion to be so, 
but I never appear to be very merry, and if I 
had all that I could wish for in the world, I do 
not think it would make any visible change in 
my humour. And yet with all my gravity I 
could not but laugh at your encounter in the 
Park, though I was not pleased that you should 
leave a fair lady and go lie upon the cold ground. 
That is full as bad as overheating yourself at 
tennis, and therefore remember 'tis one of the 
things you are forbidden. You have reason to 
think your father kind, and I have reason to 



Y8 Love Letters from, t)orothy Osborne 

think him very civil ; all his scruples are very 
just ones, but such as time and a little good for- 
tune (if we were either of us lucky to it) might 
satisfy. He may be confident I can never think 
of disposing myself without my father's consent ; 
and though he has left it more in my power than 
almost anybody leaves a daughter, yet certainly 
I were the worst natured person in the world if 
his kindness were not a greater tie upon me than 
any advantage he could have reserved. Besides 
that, 'tis my dut}'', from which nothing can ever 
tempt me, nor could you like it in me if I should 
do otherwise, 'twould make me unworthy of 
your esteem ; but if ever that may be obtained, 
or I left free, and you in the same condition, all 
the advantages of fortune or person imaginable 
met together in one man should not be preferred 
before you. I think I cannot leave you better 
than with this assurance. 'Tis very late, and 
having been abroad all this day, I knew not till 
e'en now of this messenger. Good-night to you. 
There need be no excuse for the conclusion of 
your letter. Nothing can please me better. 
Once more good-night. I am half in a dream 
already. 

Your 

Letter 13. — There is some allusion here to an 
inconstant lover of my Lady Diana Rich, who 
seems to have deserted his mistress on account of 



Life at Chichsands tO 

the sore eyes with which, Dorothy told us in a 
former letter, her friend was afflicted, 

I cannot find any account of the great shop 
above the Exchange, " The Flower Pott." There 
were two or three " Flower Pots " in London at 
this time, one in Leadenhall Street and another 
in St. James' Market. An interesting account of 
the old sign is given in a work on London trades- 
men's tokens, in which it is said to be " derived 
from the earlier representations of the salutations 
of the angel Gabriel to the Virgin Mary, in 
which either lilies were placed in his hand, or 
they were set as an accessory in a vase. As 
Popery declined, the angel disappeared, and the 
lily-pot became a vase of flowers ; subsequently 
the Virgin was omitted, and there remained only 
the vase of flowers. Since, to make things more 
unmistakeable, two debonair gentlemen, with hat 
in hand, have superseded the floral elegancies of 
the olden time, and the poetry of the art seems 
lost." 



Sir, — I am glad you 'scaped a beating, but, in 
earnest, would it had lighted on my brother's 
groom. I think I should have beaten him my- 
self if I had been able. I have expected your 
letter all this day with the greatest impatience 
that was possible, and at last resolved to go out 
and meet the fellow ; and when I came down to 
the stables, I found him come, had set up his 
horse, and was sweeping the stable in great 
order. I could not imagine him so very a beast 



80 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

as to think his horses were to be serv'd before 
me, and therefore was presently struck with an 
apprehension he had no letter for me : it Avent 
cold to my heart as ice, and hardly left me cour- 
age enough to ask him the question; but when 
he had drawled it out that he thought there was 
a letter for me in his bag, I quickly made him 
leave his broom. 'Twas well 'tis a dull fellow, 
he could not [but] have discern'd else that I was 
strangely overjoyed with it, and earnest to have 
it ; for though the poor fellow made what haste 
he could to untie his bag, I did nothing but chide 
him for being so slow. Last I had it, and, in 
earnest, I know not whether an entire diamond 
of the bigness on't would have pleased me half 
so well ; if it would, it must be only out of this 
consideration, that such a jewel would make me 
rich enough to dispute you with Mrs. Chambers, 
and perhaps make your father like me as well. 
I like him, I'll swear, and extremely too, for be- 
ing so calm in a business where his desires were 
so much crossed. Either he has a great power 
over himself, or you have a great interest in him, 
or both. If you are pleased it should end thus, 
I cannot dislike it; but if it would have been 
happy for you, I should think myself strangely 
unfortunate in being the cause that it went not 
further. I cannot say that I prefer your in- 
terest before my own, because all yours are so 



Life at Chicksands 81 

much mine that 'tis impossible for me to be 
happy if you are not so ; but if they could be di- 
vided I am certain I should. And though you 
reproached me with unkindness for advising you 
not to refuse a good offer, yet I shall not be dis- 
couraged from doing it again when there is oc- 
casion, for I am resolved to be your friend 
whether you will or no. And, for example, 
though I know you do not need my counsel, yet 
I cannot but tell you that I think 'twere very 
well that you took some care to make my Lad}'' 
B. your friend, and oblige her by your civilities 
to believe that you were sensible of the favour 
was offered you, though you had not the grace 
to make good use on't. In very good earnest 
now, she is a woman (by all that I have heard of 
her) that one would not lose ; besides that, 'twill 
become you to make some satisfaction for down- 
right refusing a young lady — 'twas unmercifully 
done. 

Would to God you would leave that trick of 
making excuses ! Can you think it necessary to 
me, or believe that your letters can be so long as 
to make them unpleasing to me ? Are mine so 
to you ? If they are not, yours never will be so 
to me. You see I say anything to you, out of a 
belief that, though my letters were more im- 
pertinent than they are, you would not be with- 
out them nor wish them shorter. Why should 



^2 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

you be less kind ? If your fellow-servant has 
been with you, she has told you I part with her 
but for her advantage. That I shall always be 
willing to do ; but whensoever she shall think fit 
to serve again, and is not provided of a better 
mistress, she knows where to find me. 

I have sent you the rest of Cleopdtre, pray 
keep them all in your hands, and the next week 
I will send you a letter and directions where you 
shall deliver that and the books for my lady. Is 
it possible that she can be indifferent to any- 
body ? Take heed of telling me such stories ; if 
all those excellences she is rich in cannot keep 
warm a passion without the sunshine of her eyes, 
what are poor people to expect ; and were it not 
a strange vanity in me to believe yours can be 
long-lived ? It would be very pardonable in you 
to change, but, sure, in him 'tis a mark of so 
great inconstancy as shows him of an humour 
that nothing can fix. When you go into the Ex- 
change, pray call at the great shop above, " The 
Flower Pott." I spoke to Heams, the man of 
the shop, when I was in town, for a quart of 
orange-flower water ; he had none that was good 
then, but promised to get me some. Pray put 
him in mind of it, and let him show it you before 
he sends it me, for I will not altogether trust to 
his honesty ; you see I make no scruple of giving 
you little idle commissions, 'tis a freedom you al- 



Life at Chichsands 83 

low me, and that I should be glad you would 
take. The Frenchman that set my seals lives be- 
tween Salisbury House and the Exchange, at a 
house that was not finished when I was there, 
and the master of the shop, his name is Walker, 
he made me pay 50s. for three, but 'twas too 
dear. You will meet with a story in these parts 
of CUopdtre that pleased me more than any that 
ever I read in my life ; 'tis of one Delie, pray 
give me your opinion of her and her prince. 
This letter is writ in great haste, as you may 
see ; 'tis my brother's sick day, and I'm not will- 
ing to leave him long alone. I forgot to tell you 
in my last that he was come hither to try if he 
can lose an ague here that he got in Gloucester- 
shire. He asked me for you very kindly, and if 
he knew I writ to you I should have something 
to say from him besides what I should say for 
myself if I had room. 

Yrs. 

Letter 14. — This letter contains the most inter- 
esting political reference of the whole series. 
Either Temple has written Dorothy an account 
of Cromwell's dissolving the Long Parliament, or 
perhaps some news-letter has found its way to 
Chicksands with the astounding news. All Eng- 
land is filled with intense excitement over Crom- 
well's coup d'etat / and it cannot be uninterest- 
ing to quote a short contemporary account of the 
business. Algernon Sydney's father, the Earl of 



84 Love Letters from Dorothy Oshorne 

Leicester, whose journal has already been quoted, 
under date Wednesday, April 20th, 1653, writes 
as follows: — " My Lord General came into the 
House clad in plain black clothes with grey 
worsted stockings, and sat down, as he used to 
do, in an ordinary place." Then he began to 
speak, and presently " he put on his hat, went out 
of his place, and Avalked up and down the stage 
or floor in the midst of the House, with his hat 
on his head, and chid them soundly." After this 
had gone on for some time. Colonel Harrison was 
called in to remove the Speaker, which he did ; 
" and it happened that Algernon Sydney sat next 
to the Speaker on the right hand. The General 
said to Harrison, ' Put him out ! ' 

" Harrison spake to Sydney to go out, but he 
said he would not go out and waited still. 

" The General said again, ' Put him out ! ' Then 
Harrison and Wortley [Worsley] put their hands 
upon Sydney's shoulders as if they w^ould force 
him to go out. Then he rose and went towards 
the door." 

Such is the story which reaches Dorothy, and 
startles all England at this date. 

Sir, — That you may be sure it was a dream 
that I writ that part of my letter in, I do not now 
remember what it was I writ, but seems it was 
very kind, and possibly you owe the discovery on't 
to my being asleep. But I do not repent it, for 
I should not love you if I did not think you dis- 
creet enough to be trusted with the knowledge 
of all my kindness. Therefore 'tis not that I de- 



Life at Chicksands 85 

sire to hide it from you, but that I do not love to 
tell it ; and perhaps if you could read my heart, 
I should make less scruple of your seeing on't 
there than in my letters, 

I can easily guess who the pretty young lady 
is, for there are but two in England of that for- 
tune, and they are sisters, but I am to seek who 
the gallant should be. If it be no secret, you 
may tell me. However, I shall wish him all good 
success if he be 3^our friend, as I suppose he is by 
his confidence in you. If it be neither of the 
Spencers, I wish it were ; I have not seen two 
young men that looked as if they deserved better 
fortunes so much as those brothers. 

But, bless me, what will become of us all now ? 
Is not this a strange turn ? What does my Lord 
Lisle ? Sure this will at least defer your journey ? 
Tell me what I must think on't ; whether it be 
better or worse, or whether you are at all con- 
cern 'd in't? For if you are not I am not, only 
if I had been so wise as to have taken hold of the 
offer was made me by Henry Cromwell, I might 
have been in a fair way of preferment, for, sure, 
they will be greater now than ever. Is it true 
that Algernon Sydney was so unwilling to leave 
the House, that the General was fain to take the 
pains to turn him out himself ? Well, 'tis a pleas- 
ant world this. If Mr. Pim were alive again, I 
wonder what he would think of these proceed- 



86 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

ings, and whether this would appear so great a 
breach of the Privilege of Parliament as the de- 
manding the 5 members ? But I shall talk treason 
by and by if I do not look to myself. 'Tis safer 
talking of the orange-flower water you sent me. 
The carrier has given me a great charge to tell 
you that it came safe, and that I must do him 
right. As you say, 'tis not the best I have seen, 
nor the worst. 

I shall expect your Diary next week, though 
this will be but a short letter : you may allow me 
to make excuses too sometimes ; but, seriously, 
my father is now so continuously ill, that I have 
hardly time for anything. 'Tis but an ague that 
he has, but yet I am much afraid that is more 
than his age and weakness will be able to bear ; 
he keeps his bed, and never rises but to have it 
made, and most times faints with that. You 
ought in charity to write as much as you can, for, 
in earnest, my life here since my father's sickness 
is so sad that, to another humour than mine, it 
would be unsupportable ; but I have been so used 
to misfortunes, that I cannot be much surprised 
with them, though perhaps I am as sensible of 
them as another. I'll leave you, for I find these 
thoughts begin to put me in ill humour; fare- 
well, may you be ever happy. If I am so at all, 
it is in being 

Your 



Life at ChicTcsands 87 

Letter 15. — What Temple had written about 
Mr. Arbry's prophecy and " the falling down of 
the form," we cannot know. Mr. Arbry was 
probably William Erbury, vicar of St. Mary's, 
Cardiff, a noted schismatic. He is said to have 
been a " holy, harmless man," but incurred both 
the hate and ridicule of his opponents. Many of 
his tracts are still extant, and they contain ex- 
travagant prophecies couched in the peculiar 
phraseology of the day. 

The celebrated Sir Samuel Luke was a near 
neighbour of the Osbornes, and Mr. Luke was 
one of his numerous family. Sir Samuel was 
Lord of the Manor of Hawnes, and in the Hawnes 
parish register there are notices of the christen- 
ings of his sons and daughters. Sir Samuel was 
not only a colonel in the Parliament Army, but 
Scout-Master-General in the counties of Bedford 
and Surrey. Samuel Butler, the author of 
Hudihras, lived with Sir Samuel Luke as his sec- 
retary, at some date prior to the Eestoration ; 
and Dr. Grey, his learned editor, believes that he 
wrote Iludihras about that time, " because he had 
then the opportunity to converse with those liv- 
ing characters of rebellion, nonsense, and hypoc- 
risy which he so lively and pathetically exposes 
throughout the whole work." Sir Samuel is said 
himself to be the original " Hudibras ; " and if 
Dr. Grey's conjecture on this matter is a right 
one, we have already in our minds a very com- 
plete portrait of Dorothy's neighbour. 

The old ballad that Dorothy encloses to her 
lover has not been preserved with her letter. If 
it is older than the ballad of " The Lord of Lome," 



88 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

it must have been composed before Henry YIII.'s 
reign ; for Edward Guilpin, in his Skialethia 
[1598], speaks of 

Th' olde ballad of the Lord of Lome, 

Whose last line in King Harrie's day was borne. 

" The Lord of Learne " (this was the old spelling) 
may be found in Bishop Percy's well-known col- 
lection of Ballads and Komances. 

Sir, — You must pardon me, I could not burn 
your other letter for my life ; I was so pleased to 
see I had so much to read, and so sorry I had 
done so soon, that I resolved to begin them again, 
and had like to have lost my dinner by it. I 
know not what humour you were in when you 
writ it ; but Mr. Arbry's prophecy and the falling 
down of the form did a little discompose my 
gravity. But I quickly recovered myself with 
thinking that you deserved to be chid for going 
where you knew you must of necessity lose 
your time. In earnest, I had a little scruple 
when I went with you thither, and but that I 
was assured it was too late to go any whither 
else, and believed it better to hear an ill sermon 
than none, I think I should have missed his 
Belles remarques. You had repented you, I 
hope, of that and all other your faults before you 
thought of dying. 

What a satisfaction you had found out to make 



Life at ChicJcsands 89 

me for the injuries you say you have done me ! 
And yet I cannot tell neither (though 'tis not the 
remedy I should choose) whether that were not 
a certain one for all my misfortunes ; for, sure, I 
should have nothing then to persuade me to stay 
longer where they grow, and I should quickly 
take a resolution of leaving them and the world 
at once. I agree with you, too, that I do not see 
any great likelihood of the change of our for- 
tunes, and that we have much more to wish than 
to hope for ; but 'tis so common a calamity that 
I dare not murmur at it ; better people have en- 
dured it, and I can give no reason why (almost) 
all are denied the satisfaction of disposing them- 
selves to their own desires, but that it is a happi- 
ness too great for this world, and might endanger 
one's forgetting the next ; whereas if we are 
crossed in that which only can make the world 
pleasing to us, we are quickly tired with the 
length of our journey and the disquiet of our inns, 
and long to be at home. One would think it 
were I who had heard the three sermons and 
were trying to make a fourth ; these are truths 
that might become a pulpit better than Mr. 
Arbry's predictions. But lest you should think I 
have as many worms in my head as he, I'll give 
over in time, and tell you how far Mr. Luke 
and I are acquainted. He lives within three or 
four miles of me, and one day that I had been to 



90 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

visit a lady that is nearer him than me, as I came 
back I met a coach with some company in't that 
I knew, and thought myself obliged to salute. 
We all lighted and met, and I found more than I 
looked for by two damsels and their squires. I 
was afterwards told they were of the Lukes, and 
possibly this man might be there, or else I never 
saw him ; for since these times we have had no 
commerce with that family, but have kept at 
great distance, as having on several occasions 
been disobliged by them. But of late, I know 
not how. Sir Sam has grown so kind as to send 
to me for some things he desired out of this 
garden, and withal made the offer of what was 
in his, which I had reason to take for a high 
favour, for he is a nice florist ; and since this we 
are insensibly come to as good degrees of civility 
for one another as can be expected from people 
that never meet. 

Who those demoiselles should be that were at 
Heamses I cannot imagine, and I know so few 
that are concerned in me or my name that I ad- 
mire you should meet with so many that seem to 
be acquainted with it. Sure, if you had liked 
them you would not have been so sullen, and a 
less occasion would have served to make you 
entertain their discourse if they had been hand- 
some. And yet I know no reason I have to be- 
lieve that beauty is any argument to make you 



L'ife at CMchsands 91 

like people ; unless I had more on't myself. But 
be it what it will that displeased you, I am glad 
they did not fright you away before you had the 
orange-flower water, for it is very good, and I 
am so sweet with it a days that I despise roses. 
When I have given you humble thanks for it, I 
mean to look over your other letter and take the 
heads, and to treat of them in order as my time 
and your patience shall give me leave. 

And first for my Sheriff, let me desire you to 
believe he has more courage than to die upon a 
denial. No (thanks be to God !), none of my 
servants are given to that ; I hear of many every 
day that do marry, but of none that do worse. 
My brother sent me word this week that my 
fighting servant is married too, and with the 
news this ballad, which was to be sung in the 
grave that you dreamt of, I think ; but because 
you tell me I shall not want company then, you 
may dispose of this piece of poetry as you please 
when you have suificiently admired with me 
where he found it out, for 'tis much older than 
that of my " Lord of Lome." You are altogether 
in the right that my brother will never be at 
quiet till he sees me disposed of, but he does not 
mean to lose me by it ; he knows that if I were 
married at this present, I should not be per- 
suaded to leave my father as long as he lives ; 
and when this house breaks up, he is resolved to 



d2 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

follow me if he can, which he thinks he might 
better do to a house where I had some power 
than where I am but upon courtesy myself. Be- 
sides that, he thinks it would be to my advantage 
to be well bestowed, and by that he understands 
richly. He is much of your sister's humour, and 
many times wishes me a husband that loved me 
as well as he does (though he seems to doubt the 
possibility on't), but never desires that I should 
love that husband with any passion, and plainly 
tells me so. He says it would not be so well for 
him, nor perhaps for me, that I should ; for he is 
of opinion that all passions have more of trouble 
than satisfaction in them, and therefore they are 
happiest that have least of them. You think 
him kind from a letter that you met with of his ; 
sure, there was very little of anything in that, 
or else I should not have employed it to wrap a 
book up. But, seriously, I many times receive 
letters from him, that were they seen without an 
address to me or his name, nobody would believe 
they were from a brother ; and I cannot but tell 
him sometimes that, sure, he mistakes and sends 
me letters that were meant to his mistress, till he 
swears to me that he has none. 

Next week my persecution begins again ; he 
comes down, and my cousin MoUe is already 
cured of his imaginary dropsy, and means to 
meet here. I shall be baited most sweetly, but 



Life at Chichsands 93 

sure tliey will not easily make me consent to 
make my life unhappy to satisfy their importu- 
nity. I was born to be very happy or very mis- 
erable, I know not which, but I am very certain 
that you will never read half this letter 'tis so 
scribbled ; but 'tis no matter, 'tis not much, 
worth it. 

Your most faithful friend and servant. 

Letter 16. — The trial of Lord Chandos for kill- 
ing Mr. Compton in a duel was, just at this 
moment, exciting the fickle attention of the 
town, which had probably said its say on the 
subject of Cromwell's coup d'etat, and was only 
too ready for another subject of conversation. 
The trial is not reported among the State Trials, 
but our observant friend the Earl of Leicester 
has again taken note of the matter in his journal, 
and can give us at least his own ideas of the trial 
and its political and social importance. Under 
date May 1653, he writes : — " Towards the end of 
Easter Term, the Lord Chandos, for killing in 
duel Mr. Compton the year before," that is to 
say, in March ; the new year begins on March 
25th, "and the Lord Arundel of Wardour, one 
of his seconds, were brought to their trial for 
their lives at the Upper Bench in Westminster 
Hall, when it was found manslaughter only, as 
by a jury at Kingston-upon-Thames it had been 
found formerly. The Lords might have had the 
privilege of peerage (Justice Rolles being Lord 
Chief Justice), but they declined it by the advice 
of Mr. Maynard and the rest of their counsel, 



94 Love Letters from Dorothy Oshorn6 

least by that means the matter might have beett 
brought about again, therefore they went upon 
the former verdict of manslaughter, and so were 
acquitted ; yet to be burned in the hand, which 
was done to them both a day or two after, but 
very favourably," These were the first peers 
that had been burned in the hand, and the dem- 
ocratic Earl of Leicester expresses at the event 
some satisfaction, and derives from the whole 
circumstances of the trial comfortable assurance 
of the power and stability of the Government. 
The Earl, however, misleads us in one particular. 
Lord Arundel was Henry Compton's second. 
He had married Cecily Compton, and naturally 
enough acted as his brother-in-law's second. It 
is also interesting to remember that Lord Chandos 
was known to the world as something other than 
a duelist. He was an eminent loyalist, among 
the first of those nobles who left Westminster, 
and at Newbury fight had his three horses 
killed under him. Lady Carey was Mary, natural 
daughter of Lord Scrope, who married Henry 
Carey, commonly called Lord Leppington. Lady 
Leppington (or Carey) lost her husband in 1649, 
and her son died May 24, 1653. This helps us 
to date the letter. Of her " kindness to Comp- 
ton," of which Dorothy writes in her next letter, 
nothing is known, but she married Charles Paulet, 
Lord St. John, afterwards the Duke of Bolton, 
early in 1654. 

The jealous Sir T here mentioned may be 

Sir Thomas Osborne, who, we may suppose, was 
not well pleased at the refusal of his offer. 

Sir Peter Lely did paint a portrait of Lady 



Life at Chichsands 95 

l)iana Rich some months after this date. It is 
somewhat curious that he should remain in Eng- 
land during the Civil Wars ; but his business was 
to paint all men's portraits. He had painted 
Charles I. ; now he was painting Cromwell. It 
was to him Cromwell is said to have shouted : 
" Paint the warts ! paint the warts ! " when the 
courtly Sir Peter would have made a presentable 
picture even of the Lord General himself. 
Cromwell was a sound critic in this, and had 
detected the main fault of Sir Peter's portraits, 
whose value to us is greatly lessened by the 
artist's constant habit of flattery. 

Sir, — If it were the carrier's fault that you 
stayed so long for your letters, you are revenged, 
for I have chid him most unreasonably. But I 
must confess 'twas not for that, for I did not 
know it then, but going to meet him (as I usually 
do), when he gave me your letter I found the 
upper seal broken open, and underneath where 
it uses to be only closed with a little wax, there 
was a seal, which though it were an anchor and 
a heart, methought it did not look like yours, 
but less, and much worse cut. This suspicion 
was so strong upon me, that I chid till the poor 
fellow was ready to cry, and swore to me that 
it had never been touched since he had it, and 
that he was careful of it, as he never put it with 
his other letters, but by itself, and that now it 
come amongst his money, which perhaps might 



96 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

break the seal ; and lest I should think it was 
his curiosity, he told me very ingenuously he 
could not read, and so we parted for the present. 
But since, he has been with a neighbour of mine 
whom he sometimes delivers my letters to, and 
begged her that she would go to me and desire 
my worship to write to your worship to know 
how the letter was sealed, for it has so grieved 
him that he has neither eat nor slept (to do him 
any good) since he came home, and in grace of 
God this shall be a warning to him as long as he 
lives. He takes it so heavily that I think I must 
be friends with him again ; but pray hereafter 
seal your letters, so that the difficulty of opening 
them may dishearten anybody from attempting 
it. 

It was but my guess that the ladies at Heams' 
were unhandsome; but since you tell me they 
were remarkably so, sure I know them by it ; 
they are two sisters, and might have been mine 
if the Fates had so pleased. They have a brother 
that is not like them, and is a baronet besides. 
'Tis strange that you tell me of my Lords 
Shandoys [Chandos] and Arundel ; but what 
becomes of young Compton's estate ? Sure my 
Lady Carey cannot neither in honour nor con- 
science keep it ; besides that, she needs it less 
now than ever, her son (being, as I hear) dead. 

Sir T., I suppose, avoids you as a friend of 



Life at Chichsands 97 

mine. My brother tells me they meet some- 
times, and have the most ado to pull off their 
hats to one another that can be, and never speak. 
If I were in town I'll undertake he would ven- 
ture the being choked for want of air rather than 
stir out of doors for fear of meeting me. But 
did you not say in your last that you took some- 
thing very ill from me ? If 'twas my humble 
thanks, well, you shall have no more of them 
then, nor no more servants. I think that they 
are not necessary among friends. 

I take it very kindly that your father asked 
for me, and that you were not pleased with the 
question he made of the continuance of my 
friendship. I can pardon it him, because he 
does not know me, but I should never forgive 
you if you could doubt it. Were my face in no 
more danger of changing than my mind, I should 
be worth the seeing at threescore ; and that 
which is but very ordinary now, would then be 
counted handsome for an old woman ; but, alas ! 
I am more likely to look old before my time with 
grief. Never anybody had such luck with serv- 
ants ; what with marrying and what with dying, 
they all leave me. Just now I have news brought 
me of the death of an old rich knight that has 
promised me this seven years to marry me when- 
soever his wife died, and now he's dead before 
her, and has left her such a widow, it makes me 



OS Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

mad to think on't, £1200 a year jointure and 
£20,000 in money and personal estate, and all 
this I might have had if Mr. Death had been 
pleased to have taken her instead of him. Well, 
who can help these things ? But since I cannot 
have him, would you had her ! "What say you ? 
Shall I speak a good word for you ? She will 
marry for certain, and perhaps, though my 
brother may expect I should serve him in it, yet 
if you give me commission I'll say I was engaged 
beforehand for a friend, and leave him to shift 
for himself. You would be my neighbour if you 
had her, and I should see you often. Think on't, 
and let me know what you resolve ? My lady 
has writ me word that she intends very shortly 
to sit at Lely's for her picture for me ; I give you 
notice on't, that you may have the pleasure of 
seeing it sometimes whilst 'tis there. I imagine 
'twill be so to you, for I am sure it would be a 
great one to me, and we do not use to differ in 
our inclinations, though I cannot agree with you 
that my brother's kindness to me has anything 
of trouble in't ; no, sure, I may be just to you 
and him both, and to be a kind sister will take 
nothing from my being a perfect friend. 

Letter lY. — Lady Newcastle was Margaret 
Duchess of Newcastle. " The thrice noble, chaste, 
and virtuous, but again somewhat fantastical and 



Life at Chichsands 99 

original-brained, generous Margaret Newcastle," 
as Elia describes her. She was the youngest 
daughter of Sir Charles Lucas, and was born at 
Colchester towards the end of the reign of James 
I. Her mother appears to have been remarkably 
careful of her education in all such lighter mat- 
ters as dancing, music, and the learning of the 
French tongue ; but she does not seem to have 
made any deep study of the classics. In 1643 
she joined the Court at Oxford, and was made 
one of the Maids of Honour to Henrietta Maria, 
whom she afterwards attended in exile. At 
Paris she met the Marquis of Newcastle, who 
married her in that city in 1645. From Paris 
they went to Rotterdam, she leaving the Queen 
to follow her husband's fortunes ; and after stop- 
ping at Rotterdam and Brabant for short periods, 
they settled at Antwerp. 

At the Restoration she returned to England 
with her husband, and employed her time in 
writing letters, plays, poems, philosophical dis- 
courses, and orations. There is a long catalogue 
of her works in Ballard's Memoirs^ but all pub- 
lished at a date subsequent to 1653. However, 
from Anthony "Wood . and other sources one 
gathers somewhat different details of her life and 
writings ; and the book to which Dorothy refers 
here and in Letter 21, is probably the Poems and 
Fancies^ and edition of which was published, I 
believe, in this year [1653]. Many of her verses 
are more strangely incomprehensible than any- 
thing even in the poetry of to-day. Take, for 
instance, a poem of four lines, from the Poems 
and j^ancieSy entitled — ' 



LofC. 



100 Love Letters from Dorothy Oshorne 

THE JOINING OF SEVERAL FIGUR'D ATOMS MAKES 
OTHER FIGURES. 

Several figur'd Atoms well agreeing 
"When joined, do give another figure being. 
For as those figures joined several ways 
The fabrick of each several creature raise. 

This seems to be a rhyming statement of the 
Atomic theory, but whether it is a poem or a 
fancy we should find it hard to decide. It is not, 
however, an unfair example of Lady Newcastle's 
fantastic style. Lady Newcastle died in 1673, 
and was buried in Westminster Abbey, — " A 
wise, witty, and learned Lady, which her many 
books do well testify." 

Sir, — I received your letter to-day, when I 
thought it almost impossible that I should be 
sensible of anything but my father's sickness and 
my own affliction in it. Indeed, he was then so 
dangerously ill that we could not reasonably hope 
he should outlive this day ; yet he is now, I thank 
God, much better, and I am come so much to 
myself with it, as to undertake a long letter to 
you whilst I watch by him. Towards the latter 
end it will be excellent stuff, I believe ; but, alas ! 
you may allow me to dream sometimes. I have 
had so little sleep since my father was sick that 
I am never thoroughly awake. Lord, how I have 
wished for you ! Here do I sit all night by a 
poor moped fellow that serves my father, and 
have much ado to keep him awake and myself 
too. If you heard the wise discourse that is be- 



Life at Chicksands 101 

tween us, you would swear we wanted sleep ; 
but I shall leave him to-night to entertain him- 
self, and try if I can write as wisely as I talk. I 
am glad all is well again. In earnest, it would 
have lain upon my conscience if I had been the 
occasion of making your poor boy lose a service, 
that if he has the wit to know how to value it, 
he would never have forgiven me while he had 
lived. 

But while I remember it, let me ask you if you 
did not send my letter and Cleopdtre where I 
directed you for my lady ? I received one from 
her to-day full of the kindest reproaches, that she 
has not heard from me this three weeks. I have 
writ constantly to her, but I do not so much 
wonder that the rest are lost, as that she seems 
not to have received that which I sent to you nor 
the books. I do not understand it, but I know 
there is no fault of yours in't. But, mark you ! 
if you think to 'scape with sending me such bits 
of letters, you are mistaken. You say you are 
often interrupted, and I believe it ; but you must 
use then to begin to write before you receive 
mine, and whensoever you have any spare time 
allow me some of it. Can you doubt that any- 
thing can make your letters cheap ? In earnest, 
'twas unkindly said, and if I could be angry with 
you it should be for that. No, certainly they 
are, and ever will be, dear to me as that which I 



102 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

receive a huge contentment by. How shall I 
long when you are gone your journey to hear 
from you ! how shall I apprehend a thousand ac- 
cidents that are not likely nor will ever happen, 
I hope ! Oh, if you do not send me long letters, 
then you are the cruellest person that can be ! If 
you love me you will ; and if you do not, I shall 
never love myself. You need not fear such a 
command as you mention. Alas ! I am too much 
concerned that you should love me ever to for- 
bid it you ; 'tis all that I propose of happiness to 
myself in the world. The burning of my paper 
has waked me ; all this while I was in a dream. 
But 'tis no matter, I am content you should know 
they are of you, and that when my thoughts are 
left most at liberty they are the kindest. I 
swear my eyes are so heavy that I hardly see 
what I write, nor do I think you will be able to 
read it when I have done ; the best on't is 'twill 
be no great loss to you if you do not, for, sure, 
the greatest part on't is not sense, and 3'et on 
my conscience I shall go on with it. 'Tis like 
people that talk in their sleep, nothing interrupts 
them but talking to them again, and that you 
are not like to do at this distance ; besides that, 
at this instant you are, I believe, more asleep 
than I, and do not so much as dream that I am 
writing to you. My fellow- watchers have been 
asleep too, till just now they begin to stretch and 



Life at Chicksands 103 

yawn ; they are going to try if eating and drink- 
ing can keep them awake, and I am kindly in- 
vited to be of their company ; and my father's 
man has got one of the maids to talk nonsense to 
to-night, and they have got between them a bot- 
tle of ale. I shall lose my share if I do not take 
them at their first offer. Your patience till I 
have drunk, and then I'll for you again. 

And now on the strength of this ale, I believe 
I shall be able to fill up this paper that's left 
with something or other ; and first let me ask you 
if you have seen a book of poems newly come 
out, made by my Lady Newcastle ? For God's 
sake if you meet with it send it to me ; they say 
'tis ten times more extravagant than her dress. 
Sure, the poor woman is a little distracted, she 
could never be so ridiculous else as to venture at 
writing books, and in verse too. If I should not 
sleep this fortnight I should not come to that. 
My eyes grow a little dim though, for all the ale, 
and I believe if I could see it this is most 
strangely scribbled. Sure, I shall not find fault 
with your writing in haste, for anything but the 
shortness of your letter; and 'twould be very 
unjust in me to tie you to a ceremony that I do 
not observe myself. No, for God's sake let there 
be no such thing between us ; a real kindness is 
so far beyond all compliment, that it never ap- 
pears more than when there is least of t'other 



104 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

mingled with it. If, then, you would have me 
believe yours to be perfect, confirm it to me by a 
kind freedom. Tell me if there be anything that 
I can serve you in, employ me as you would do 
that sister that you say you love so well. Chide 
me when I do anything that is not well, but then 
make haste to tell me that you have forgiven me, 
and that you are what I shall ever be, a faithful 
friend. 

Letter 18. — I cannot pass by this letter without 
saying that the first part of it is, to my thinking, 
the most dainty and pleasing piece of writing 
that Dorothy has left us. The account of her 
life, one day and every day, is like a gust of 
fresh country air clearing away the mist of time 
and enabling one to see Dorotliy at Chicksands 
quite clearly. It is fashionable to deny Macau- 
lay everything but memory ; but he had the 
good taste and discernment to admire this letter, 
and quote from it in his Essay on Sir William 
Temple, — a quotation for which I shall always 
remain very grateful to him. 

Sir Thomas Peyton, " Brother Peyton," was 
born in 1619, being, I believe, the second baronet 
of that name ; his seat was at Knowlton, in the 
county of Kent. Early in the reign of Charles I. 
we find him as Member of Parliament for Sand- 
wich, figuring in a Committee side by side with 
the two Sir Harry Vanes ; the Committee hav- 
ing been sent into Kent to prevent the dispersal 
of rumours to the scandal of Parliament, — no 
light task, one would think. In 1643 he is in 



Life at Chicksands 105 

prison, charged among other things with being a 
malignant. An unjust charge, as he thinks ; for 
he writes to his brother, " If to wish on earth 
peace, goodwill towards men, be a malignant, 
none is greater than your affectionate brother, 
Thomas Peyton." But in spite of these peaceful 
thoughts in prison, in May 1648 he is heading a 
loyalist rising in Kent. The other counties not 
joining in at the right moment, in accordance 
with the general procedure at Royalist risings, it 
is defeated by Fairfax. Sir Thomas's house is 
ransacked, he himself is taken prisoner near Bury 
St. Edmunds, brought to the House of Commons, 
and committed to the Tower. A right worthy 
son-in-law of good Sir Peter. We are glad to 
find him at large again in 1653, his head safe on 
his shoulders, and do not grudge him his grant of 
duties on sea-coal, dated 1660 ; nor are we sorry 
that he should once again grace the House of 
Commons with his presence as one of the mem- 
bers for loyal Kent in the good days when the 
King enjoyed his own again. 

Sir, — I have been reckoning up how many 
faults you lay to my charge in your last letter, 
and I find I am severe, unjust, unmerciful, and 
unkind. Oh me, how should one do to mend all 
these ! 'Tis work for an age, and 'tis to be feared 
I shall be so old before I am good, that 'twill 
not be considerable to anybody but myself 
whether I am so or not. I say nothing of the 
pretty humour you fancied me in, in your 
dream, because 'twas but a dream, Sure, if it 



106 Love Letters fi'om Dorothy Osborne 

had been anything else, I should have remem- 
bered that my Lord L. loves to have his chamber 
and his bed to himself. But seriously, now, I 
wonder at your patience. How could you hear 
me talk so senselessly, though 'twere but in your 
sleep, and not be ready to beat me ? What nice 
mistaken points of honour I pretended to, and yet 
could allow him room in the same bed with me ! 
"Well, dreams are pleasant things to people whose 
humours are so ; but to have the spleen, and to 
dream upon't, is a punishment I would not wish 
my greatest enemy. I seldom dream, or never 
remember them, unless they have been so sad as 
to put me into such disorder as I can hardly re- 
cover when I am awake, and some of those I am 
confident I shall never forget. 

You ask me how I pass my time here. I can 
give you a perfect account not only of what I do 
for the present, but of what I am likely to do 
this seven years if I stay here so long. I rise in 
the morning reasonably early, and before I am 
ready I go round the house till I am weary of 
that, and then into the garden till it grows too 
hot for me. About ten o'clock I think of making 
me ready, and when that's done I go into my 
father's chamber, from whence to dinner, where 
my cousin MoUe and I sit in great state in a 
room, and at a table that would hold a great 
many more. After dinner we sit and talk till 



Life at Chicksands 107 

Mr. B. comes in question, and then I am gone. 
The heat of the day is spent in reading or work- 
ing, and about six or seven o'clock I walk out into 
a common that lies hard by the house, where a 
great many young wenches keep sheep and cows, 
and sit in the shade singing of ballads. I go to 
them and compare their voices and beauties to 
some ancient shepherdesses that I have read of, 
and find a vast difference there ; but, trust me, 
I think these are as innocent as those could be. 
I talk to them, and find they want nothing to 
make them the happiest people in the world but 
the knowledge that they are so. Most com- 
monly, when we are in the midst of our dis- 
course, one looks about her, and spies her cows 
going into the corn, and then away they all run 
as if they had wings at their heels. I, that am 
not so nimble, stay behind ; and when I see them 
driving home their cattle, I think 'tis time for me 
to return too. "When I have supped, I go into 
the garden, and so to the side of a small river 
that runs by it, when I sit down and wish you 
were with me (you had best say this is not kind 
neither). In earnest, 'tis a pleasant place, and 
would be much more so to me if I had your com- 
pany. I sit there sometimes till I am lost with 
thinking; and were it not for some cruel 
thoughts of the crossness of our fortunes that 
will not let me sleep there, I should forget that 



108 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

there were such a thing to be done as going to 
bed. 

Since I writ this my company is increased by 
two, my brother Harry and a fair niece, the 
eldest of my brother Peyton's children. She is 
so much a woman that I am almost ashamed 
to say I am her aunt ; and so pretty, that, if I 
had any design to gain of servants, I should not 
like her company ; but I have none, and there- 
fore shall endeavour to keep her. here as long 
as I can persuade her father to spare her, 
for she will easily consent to it, having so much 
of my humour (though it be the worst thing in 
her) as to like a melancholy place and little com- 
pany. My brother John is not come down again, 
nor am I certain when he will be here. He went 
from London into Gloucestershire to my sister 
who was very ill, and his youngest girl, of which 
he was very fond, is since dead. But I believe 
by that time his wife has a little recovered her 
sickness and loss of her child, he will be coming 
this way. My father is reasonably well, but keeps 
his chamber still, and will hardly, I am afraid, 
ever be so perfectly recovered as to come abroad 
again. 

I am sorry for poor "Walker, but you need not 
doubt of what he has of yours in his hands, for 
it seems he does not use to do his work himself. 
I speak seriously, he keeps a Frenchman that sets 



Life at Chichsands 109 

all his seals and rings. If what you say of my 
Lady Leppington be of your own knowledge, I 
shall believe you, but otherwise I can assure you 
I have heard from people that pretend to know 
her very well, that her kindness to Compton was 
very moderate, and that she never liked him so 
well as when he died and gave her his estate. 
But they might be deceived, and 'tis not so 
strange as that you should imagine a coldness 
and an indifference in my letters when I so little 
meant it ; but I am not displeased you should 
desire my kindness enough to apprehend the loss 
of it when it is safest. Only I would not have 
you apprehend it so far as to believe it possible, 
— that were an injury to all the assurances I have 
given you, and if you love me you cannot think 
me unworthy. I should think myself so, if I 
found you grew indifferent to me, that I have 
had so long and so particular a friendship for ; 
but, sure, this is more than I need to say. You 
are enough in my heart to know all my thoughts, 
and if so, you know better than I can tell you 
how much I am 

Yours. 

Letter 19. — Lady Kuthin is Susan, daughter 
and heiress of Charles Longueville Lord Grey de 
Kuthin. She married Sir Harry Yelverton, a 
match of which Dorothy thoroughly approved. 
We hear more of Dorothy's beautiful friend at 



110 Love Letters from l)orothy Osborne 

the time when the treaty with Sir Harry Yelver- 
ton is going forward. Of Mr. Talbot I tind noth- 
ing ; we must rest contented in knowing him to 
be a fellow-servant. 

K. Spencer is Kobert Spencer, Earl of Sunder- 
land, Lady Sunderland's brother-in-law. He was 
afterwards one of the inner council of four in 
Temple's Scheme of Government. " In him," 
says Macaulay, in a somewhat highly-coloured 
character-sketch, " the political immortality of 
his age was personified in the most lively man- 
ner. Nature had given him a keen understand- 
ing, a restless and mischievous temper, a cold 
heart, and an abject spirit. His mind had under- 
gone a training by which all his vices had been 
nursed up to the rankest maturity." 

Lady Lexington was Mary, daughter of Sir 
Anthony Leger; she was the third wife of 
Eobert Sutton, Earl of Lexington. I cannot find 
that her daughter married one of the Spencers. 

Sir, — If to know I wish you with me pleases 
you, 'tis a satisfaction you may always have, for 
I do it perpetually ; but were it really in my 
power to make you happy, I could not miss being 
so myself, for I know nothing else I want to- 
wards it. You are admitted to all my entertain- 
ments ; and 'twould be a pleasing surprise to me 
to see you amongst my shepherdesses. I meet 
some there sometimes that look very like gentle- 
men (for 'tis a road), and when they are in good 
humour they give us a compliment as they go 



Life at Chichsands 111 

by ; but you would be so courteous as to stay, I 
hope, if we entreated you ; 'tis in your way to 
this place, and just before the house. 'Tis our 
Hyde Park, and every fine evening, anybody that 
wanted a mistress might be sure to find one 
there. I have wondered often to meet my fair 
Lady Kuthin there alone ; methinks it should be 
dangerous for an heir. I could find in my heart 
to steal her away myself, but it should be rather 
for her person than her fortune. My brother 
says not a word of you, nor your service, nor do 
I expect he should; if I could forget you, he 
would not help my memory. You would laugh, 
sure, if I could tell you how many servants he 
has offered me since he came down ; but one 
above all the rest I think he is in love with him- 
self, and may marry him too if he pleases, I shall 
not hinder him. 'Tis one Talbot, the finest 
gentleman he has seen this seven years ; but the 
mischief on't is he has not above fifteen or six- 
teen hundred pound a year, though he swears he 
begins to think one might bate £500 a year for 
such a husband. I tell him I am glad to hear it ; 
and if I was as much taken (as he) with Mr, Tal- 
bot, I should not be less gallant ; but I doubted 
the first extremely. I have spleen enough to 
carry me to Epsom this summer ; but yet I think 
I shall not go. If I make one journey, I must 
make more, for then I have no excuse. Rather 



112 Love Letters from l)orothy Osborne 

than be obliged to that, I'll make none. You 
have so often reproached me with the loss of 
your liberty, that to make you some amends I 
am contented to be your prisoner this summer ; 
but you shall do one favour for me into the bar- 
gain. When your father goes into Ireland, lay 
your commands upon some of his servants to get 
you an Irish greyhound. I have one that was 
the General's ; but 'tis a bitch, and those are al- 
ways much less than the dogs. I got it in the 
time of my favour there, and it was all they had. 
Henry Cromwell undertook to write to his 
brother Fleetwood for another for me ; but I 
have lost my hopes there. Whomsoever it is 
that you employ, he will need no other instruc- 
tions but to get the biggest he can meet with ; 
'tis all the beauty of those dogs, or of any kind, 
I think. A masty [mastif] is handsomer to me 
than the most exact little dog that ever lady 
played withal. You will not offer to take it ill 
that I employ you in such a commission, since I 
have told you that the General's son did not re- 
fuse it ; but I shall take it ill if you do not take 
the same freedom with me whensoever I am ca- 
pable of serving you. The town must needs be 
unpleasant now, and, raethinks, you might con- 
trive some way of having your letters sent to 
you without giving yourself the trouble of com- 
ing to town for them when you have no other 



Life at Chichsands 113 

business; you must pardon me if I think they 
cannot be worth it. 

I am told that R. Spencer is a servant to a lady 
of my acquaintance, a daughter of my Lady Lex- 
ington's. Is it true ? And if it be, what is be- 
come of the £2500 lady ? Would you think it, 
that I have an ambassador from the Emperor 
Justinian, that comes to renew the treaty ? In 
earnest, 'tis true, and I want your counsel ex- 
tremely, what to do in it. You told me once 
that of all my servants you liked him the best. 
If I could do so too, there were no dispute in't. 
"Well, I'll think on't, and if it succeed I will be as 
good as my word ; you shall take your choice of 
my four daughters. Am not I beholding to him, 
think you ? He says that he has made addresses, 
'tis true, in several places since we parted, but 
could not fix anywhere ; and, in his opinion, he 
sees nobody that would make so fit a wife for 
him as I. He has often inquired after me to hear 
if I were marrying, and somebody told him I had 
an ague, and he presently fell sick of one too, so 
natural a sympathy there is between us ; and yet 
for all this, on my conscience, we shall never 
marry. He desires to know whether I am at 
liberty or not. What shall I tell him ? Or shall 
I send him to you to know ? I think that will 
be best. I'll say that you are much my friend, 
and that I have resolved not to dispose of myself 



114 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

but with your consent and approbation, and 
therefore he must make all his court to you ; and 
when he can bring me a certificate under your 
hand, that you think him a fit husband for me, 
'tis very likely I may have him. Till then I am 
his humble servant and your faithful friend. 

Letter 20. — In this letter the journey into 
Sweden is given up finally, and Temple is once 
more without employment or the hope of em- 
ployment. This was probably brought about by 
the alteration of the Government plans ; and as 
Lord Lisle was not to go to Sweden, there was no 
chance of Temple's being attached to the Em- 
bassy. 

Sir, — I am sorry my last letter frighted you 
so ; 'twas no part of my intention it should ; but 
I am more sorry to see by your first chapter that 
your humour is not always so good as I could 
wish it. 'Twas the only thing I ever desired we 
might differ in, and therefore I think it is denied 
me. Whilst I read the description on't, I could 
not believe but that I had writ it myself, it was 
so much my own. I pity you in earnest much 
more than I do myself ; and yet I may deserve 
yours when I shall have told you, that besides 
all that you speak of, I have gotten an ague that 
with two fits has made me so very weak, that I 
doubted extremely yesterday whether I should 
be able to sit up to-day to write to you. But 



L}fe at Chichsands 115 

you must not be troubled at this ; that's the way 
to kill me indeed. Besides, it is impossible I 
should keep it long, for here is my eldest brother, 
and my cousin MoUe, and two or three more that 
have great understanding in agues, as people that 
have been long acquainted with them, and they 
do so tutor and govern me, that I am neither to 
eat, drink, nor sleep without their leave ; and, 
sure, my obedience deserves they should cure me, 
or else they are great tyrants to very little pur- 
pose. You cannot imagine how cruel they are 
to me, and yet will persuade me 'tis for my good. 
I know they mean it so, and therefore say noth- 
ing on't, I admit, and sigh to think those are not 
here that would be kinder to me. But you were 
cruel yourself when you seemed to apprehend I 
might oblige you to make good your last offer. 
Alack ! if I could purchase the empire of the 
world at that rate, I should think it much too 
dear; and though, perhaps, I am too unhappy 
myself ever to make anybody else happy, yet, 
sure, I shall take heed that my misfortunes may 
not prove infectious to my friends. You ask 
counsel of a person that is very little able to give 
it. I cannot imagine whither you should go, 
since this journey is broke. You must e'en be 
content to stay at home, I think, and see what 
will become of us, though I expect nothing of 
good ; and, sure, you never made a truer remark 



116 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

in your life than that all changes are for the 
worse. "Will it not stay your father's journey 
too ? Methinks it should. For God's sake write 
me all that you hear or can think of, that I may 
have something to entertain myself withal. I 
have a scurvy head that will not let me write 
longer. 

I am your. 
[Directed] — 

For Mrs. Paynter, at her house 
in Bedford Street, next ye Goate, 
In Covent Garden. 

Letter 21. — Sir Thomas Osborne is Dorothy's 
" Cousin Osborne " here mentioned. He was, 
you remember, a suitor for Dorothy's hand, but 
has now married Lady Bridget Lindsay. 

The " squire that is as good as a knight," is, in 
all probability, Richard Bennet. Thomas Ben- 
net, his father, an alderman of the city of Lon- 
don, had bought a seat near Cambridge, called 
Babraham or Babram, that had belonged to Sir 
Toby Palavicini. The alderman appears to have 
been a loyal citizen, as he was created baronet in 
1660. His two sons. Sir Richard and Sir Thomas, 
married daughters of Sir Lavinius Munck ; — so 
we need not accuse Dorothy of irretrievably break- 
ing hearts by her various refusals. 

When Dorothy says she will " sit like the lady 
of the lobster, and give audience at Babram," she 
simply means that she will sit among magnificent 
surroundings unsuited to ter modest disposition. 



lAfe at ChicTcsands 117 

The " lady " of a lobster is a curious-shaped sub- 
stance in the head of that fish, bearing some dis- 
tant resemblance to the figure of a woman. The 
expression is still known to fishmongers and oth- 
ers, who also refer to the " Adam and Eve " in a 
shrimp, a kindred formation. Curiously enough, 
this very phrase has completely puzzled Dr. 
Grosart, the learned editor of Herrick, who con- 
fesses that he can make nothing of the allusion in 
the following passage from The Fairie Tem- 
jple : — 

" The saint to which the most he prayes, 
And offers Incense Nights and Dayes, 
The Lady of the Lobster is 
Whose foot-pace he doth stroak and kiss." 

Swift, too, uses the phrase in his Battle of the 
Books in describing the encounter between Virgil 
and Dryden, where he says, " The helmet was 
nine times too large for the head, which appeared 
situate far in the hinder part, even like the lady 
in a lobster, or a mouse under a canopy of state, 
or like a shrivelled beau from within the pent- 
house of a modern periwig." 

Sir, — I do not know that anybody has frighted 
me, or beaten me, or put me into more passion 
than what I usually carry about me, but yester- 
day I missed my fit, and am not without hope I 
shall hear no more on't. My father has lost his 
too, and my eldest brother, but we all look like 
people risen from the dead. Only my cousin 
Molle keeps his still ; and, in earnest, I am not 



118 "Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

certain whether he would lose it or not, for it 
gives him a lawful occasion of being nice and 
cautious about himself, to which he in his own 
humour is so much inclined that 'twere not easy 
for him to forbear it. You need not send me my 
Lady Newcastle's book at all, for I have seen it, 
and am satisfied that there are many soberer peo- 
ple in Bedlam. I'll swear her friends are much 
to blame to let her go abroad. 

But I am hugely pleased that you have seen 
my Lady. I knew you could not choose but like 
her ; but yet, let me tell you, you have seen but 
the worst of her. Her conversation has more 
charms than can be in mere beauty, and her 
humour and disposition would make a deformed 
person appear lovely. You had strange luck to 
meet my brother so soon. He went up but last 
Tuesday. I heard from him on Thursday, but 
he did not tell me he had seen you ; perhaps he 
did not think it convenient to put me in mind of 
you ; besides, he thought he told me enough in 
telling me my cousin Osborne was married. 
Why did you not send me that news and a gar- 
land ? Well, the best on't is I have a squire 
now that is as good as a knight. He was coming 
as fast as a coach and six horses could carry him, 
but I desired him to stay till my ague was gone, 
and give me a little time to recover my good 
looks ; for I protest if he saw me now he would 



Life at Chicksands 119 

never deign to see me again. Oh, me ! I can 
but think how I shall sit like the lady of the 
lobster, and give audience at Babram. You have 
been there, I am sure. Nobody that is at Cam- 
bridge 'scapes it. But you were never so wel- 
come thither as you shall be when I am mistress 
on't. In the meantime, I have sent you the first 
tome of Cyrus to read ; when you have done 
with it, leave it at Mr. HoUingsworth's, and I'll 
send you another. I have had ladies with me 
all the afternoon that are for London to-morrow, 
and now I have as many letters to write as my 
Lord General's Secretary. Forgive me that this 
is no longer, for 

I am your. 
Addressed — 

For Mrs. Paynter, at her house in 

Bedford Street, next ye Goate, 
In Covent Garden. 

Letter 22. — Mr. Fish and Mr. Freeman were 
probably neighbours of Dorothy. There is a 
Mr. Ralph Freeman of Aspedon Hall, in Hert- 
fordshire, mentioned in contemporary chronicles ; 
he died in 1714, aged 88, and was therefore about 
37 years of age at this time. His father seems 
to have been an ideal country gentleman, " who," 
says Sir Henry Chauncy, " made his house neat, 
his gardens pleasant, his groves delicious, his 
children cheerful, his servants easy, and kept 
excellent order in his family." 



120 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

Sir, — You are more in my debt than you 
imagine. I never deserved a long letter so much. 
as now, when you sent me a short one. I could 
tell you such a story ('tis too long to be written) 
as would make you see (what I never discover'd 
in myself before) that I am a valiant lady. In 
earnest, we have had such a skirmish, and upon 
so foolish an occasion, as I cannot tell which is 
strangest. The Emperor and his proposals began 
it ; I talked merrily on't till I saw my brother 
put on his sober face, and could hardly then be- 
lieve he was in earnest. It seems he was, for 
when I had spoke freely my meaning, it wrought 
so with him as to fetch up all that lay on his 
stomach. All the people that I had ever in my 
life refused were brought again upon the stage, 
like Richard the III.'s ghosts, to reproach me 
withal ; and all the kindness his discoveries could 
make I had for you was laid to my charge. My 
best qualities (if I have any that are good) served 
but for aggravations of my fault, and I was 
allowed to have wit and understanding and dis- 
cretion in other things, that it might appear I 
had none in this. Well, 'twas a pretty lecture, 
and I grew warm with it after a while ; in short, 
we came so near an absolute falling out, that 
'twas time to give over, and we said so much 
then that Ave have hardly spoken a word to- 
gether since. But 'tis wonderful to see what 



Life at Chicksands 121 

curtseys and legs pass between us ; and as before 
we were thought the kindest brother and sister, 
we are certainly the most complimental couple 
in England. 'Tis a strange change, and I am 
very sorry for it, but I'll swear I know not how 
to help it. I look upon't as one of my great 
misfortunes, and I must bear it, as that which is 
not my first nor likely to be my last. 'Tis but 
reasonable (as you say) that you should see me, 
and yet I know not now how it can well be. I 
am not for disguises, it looks like guilt, and I 
would not do a thing I durst not own, I cannot 
tell whether (if there were a necessity of your 
coming) I should not choose to have it when he 
is at home, and rather expose him to the trouble 
of entertaining a person whose company (here) 
would not be })leasing to him, and perhaps an 
opinion that I did it purposely to cross him, than 
that your coming in his absence should be thought 
a concealment. 'Twas one reason more than I 
told you why I resolv'd not to go to Epsom this 
summer, because I knew he would imagine it an 
agreement between us, and that something be- 
sides my spleen carried me thither ; but whether 
you see me or not you may be satisfied I am safe 
enough, and you are in no danger to lose your 
prisoner, since so great a violence as this has not 
broke her chains. You will have nothing to 
thank me for after this ; my whole life will not 



122 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

yield such another occasion to let you see at 
what rate I value your friendship, and I have 
been much better than ray word in doing but 
what I promised you, since I have found it a 
much harder thing not to yield to the power of 
a near relation, and a greater kindness than I 
could then imagine it. 

To let you see I did not repent me of the last 
commission, I'll give you another. Here is a 
seal that Walker set for me, and 'tis dropt out ; 
pray give it him to mend. If anything could 
be wonder'd at in this age, I should very much 
how you came by your informations. 'Tis more 
than I know if Mr. Freeman be my servant. I 
saw him not long since, and he told me no such 
thing. Do you know him ? In earnest, he's a 
pretty gentleman, and has a great deal of good 
nature, I think, which may oblige him perhaps to 
speak well of his acquaintances without design. 
Mr. Fish is the Squire of Dames, and has so 
many mistresses that anybody may pretend a 
share in him and be believed ; but though I have 
the honour to be his near neighbour, to speak 
freely, I cannot brag much that he makes any 
court to me ; and I know no young woman in 
the country that he does not visit often. 

I have sent you another tome of Cyrus^ pray 
send the first to Mr. HoUingsworth for my Lady. 
My cousin Molle went from hence to Cambridge 



Life at Chichsands 123 

on Thursday, and there's an end of Mr. Bennet. 
I have no company now but my niece Peyton, 
and my brother will be shortly for the term, but 
will make no long stay in town. I think my 
youngest brother comes down with him. Ke- 
member that you owe me a long letter and some- 
thing for forgiving your last. I have no room 
for more than 

Your. 

Letter 23. 

Sir, — I will tell you no more of my servants. 
I can no sooner give you some little hints where- 
abouts they live, but you know them presently, 
and I meant you should be beholding to me for 
your acquaintance. But it seems this gentleman 
is not so easy access, but you may acknowledge 
something due to me, if I incline him to look 
graciously upon you, and therefore there is not 
much harm done. What has kept him from 
marrying all this time, or how the humour 
comes so furiously upon him now, I know not ; 
but if he may be believed, he is resolved to be a 
most romance squire, and go in quest of some 
enchanted damsel, whom if he likes, as to her 
person (for fortune is a thing below him),— and 
we do not read in history that any knight or 
squire was ever so discourteous as to inquire 
what portions their ladies had, — then he comes 



12-i Love Letters froitn Dorothy Oshorne 

with the power of the county to demand her, 
(which for the present he may dispose of, being 
Sheriff), so I do not see who is able to resist him. 
All that is to be hoped is, that since he may re- 
duce whomsoever he pleases to his obedience, he 
will be very curious in his choice, and then I am 
secure. 

It may be I dreamt it that you had met my 
brother, or else it was one of the reveries of my 
ague ; if so, I hope I shall fall into no more of 
them. I have missed four fits, and had but five, 
and have recovered so much strength as made 
me venture to meet your letter on Wednesday, a 
mile from home. Yet my recovery will be noth- 
ing towards my leaving this place, where many 
reasons will oblige me to stay at least all this 
summer, unless some great alteration should hap- 
pen in this famil}^ ; that which I most own is 
my father's ill-health, which, though it be not in 
that extremity it has been, yet keeps him still a 
prisoner in his chamber, and for the most part to 
his bed, which is reason enough. But, besides, I 
can give you others. I am here much more out 
of people's way than in town, where my aunt 
and such as pretend an interest in me, and a 
power over me, do so persecute me with their 
good nature, and take it so ill that they are not 
accepted, as I would live in a hollow tree to 
avoid them. Here I have nobody but my 



liife at Chichsands 125 

brother to torment me, whom I can take the 
liberty to dispute with, and whom I have pre- 
vailed with hitherto to bring none of his pre- 
tenders to this place, because of the noise all such 
people make in a country, and the tittle-tattle it 
breeds among neighbours that have nothing to 
do but to inquire who marries and who makes 
love. If I can but keep him still in that humour 
Mr. Bennet and I are likely to preserve our 
state and treat at distance like princes ; but we 
have not sent one another our pictures yet, 
though my cousin MoUe, who was his agent 
here, begged mine very earnestly. But, I thank 
God, an imagination took him one morning that 
he was falling into a dropsy, and made him in 
such haste to go back to Cambridge to his doc- 
tor, that he never remembers anything he has to 
ask of me, but the coach to carry him away. I 
lent it most willingly, and gone he is. My eldest 
brother goes up to town on Monday too ; perhaps 
you may see him, but I cannot direct you where 
to find him, for he is not yet resolved himself 
where to lie ; only 'tis likely Nan may tell you 
when he is there. He will make no stay, I be- 
lieve. You will think him altered (and, if it be 
possible) more melancholy than he was. If mar- 
riage agrees no better with other people than it 
does with him, I shall pray that all my friends 
may 'scape it. Yet if I were my cousin, H. 



126 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

Danvers, my Lady Diana should not, if I could 
help it, as well as I love her : I would try if ten 
thousand pound a year with a husband that doted 
on her, as I should do, could not keep her from 
being unhappy. Well, in earnest, if I were a 
prince, that lady should be my mistress, but I 
can give no rule to any one else, and perhaps 
those that are in no danger of losing their hearts 
to her may be infinitely taken with one I should 
not value at all ; for (so says the Justinian) wise 
Providence has ordained it that by their different 
humours everybody might find something to 
please themselves withal, without envying their 
neighbours. And now I have begun to talk 
gravely and wisely, I'll try if I can go a little 
further without being out. No, I cannot, for I 
have forgot already what 'twas I would have 
said ; but 'tis no matter, for, as I remember, it 
was not much to the purpose, and, besides, I have 
paper little enough left to chide you for asking so 
unkind a question as whether you were still the 
same in my thoughts. Have you deserved to be 
otherwise ; that is, am I no more in yours ? For 
till that be, it's impossible the other should ; but 
that will never be, and I shall always be the 
same I am. My heart tells me so, and I believe 
it ; for were it otherwise, Fortune would not per- 
secute me thus. Oh, me ! she's cruel, and how 
far her power may reach I know not, only I am 



Life at ChicJcsands 127 

sure, she cannot call back time that is past, and 
it is long since we resolved to be for ever 

Most faithful friends. 

Letter 24. — Tom Cheeke is Sir Thomas Cheeke, 
Knight, of Purgo, in the county of Essex, or 
more probably his son, from the way Dorothy 
speaks of him ; but it is diificult to discriminate 
among constant generations of Toms after a 
lapse of two hundred years. We find Sir 
Thomas's daughter was at this time the third 
wife of Lord Manchester ; and it appears that 
Dorothy's great-grandfather married Catherine 
Cheeke, daughter of the then Sir Thomas. This 
will assist us to the connection between Dorothy, 
Tom Cheeke, and Lord Manchester. Sir Eichard 
Franklin, Knight, married a daughter of Sir 
Thomas Cheeke. He purchased Moor Park, 
Hertfordshire, about this time. The park and 
the mansion he bought in 1652 from the Earl of 
Monmouth, and the manor in 1655 from Sir 
Charles Harbord. The gardens had been laid 
out by the Countess of Bedford, who had sold 
the place in 1626 to the Earl of Pembroke. The 
house was well known to Temple, who describes 
the gardens in his Essay on Gardening; and 
when he retired in later years to an estate near 
Farnham in Surrey, he gave to it the name of 
Moor Park. 

Lord Manchester was Edward Montagu, second 
Earl of Manchester. He was educated at Sidney 
Sussex College, Cambridge, and sat for Hunting- 
donshire in the first two Parliaments of Charles 
L He was called to the Upper House as Lord 



128 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

Kimbolton in 1626, and succeeded his father in 
1642. His name is well known in history as that 
of the leader of the Puritans in the House of 
Lords, and as the only peer joined with the five 
members impeached by the King. He raised a 
regiment and fought under Essex at Edgehill, 
reconquered Lincolnshire, and took part in the 
battle of Marston Moor. At this time Cromwell 
was his subordinate, and to his directions Lord 
Manchester's successes are in all probability due. 
At the second battle of Newbury, Lord Man- 
chester showed some hesitation in folloAving up 
his success, and Cromwell accused him of luke- 
warmness in the cause from his place in the 
House of Commons. An inquiry was instituted, 
but the Committee never carried out their in- 
vestigations, and in parliamentary language the 
matter then dropped. He afterwards held, 
among other offices, that of Chancellor of the 
University of Cambridge, and inducted a visita- 
tion and reform of that University. He resisted 
the trial of the King and the foundation of the 
Commonwealth, refused to sit in Cromwell's new 
House of Lords, and was among those Presby- 
terians who helped to bring about the Restora- 
tion. 

Cooper and Hoskins were famous miniature 
painters of the day. Samuel Cooper was a 
nephew of John Hoskins, who instructed him in 
the art of miniature painting, in which he soon 
out-rivalled his master. Cooper, Avho is styled 
by contemporary eulogists the "prince of lim- 
ners," gave a strength and freedom to the art 
which it had not formerly possessed ; but where 



Tiife at Chichsands 129 

he attempted to express more of the figure than, 
the head, his drawing is defective. His painting 
was famous for the beauty of his carnation tints, 
and the loose flowing lines in which he described 
the hair of his model. He was a friend of the 
famous Samuel Butler. Hoskins, though a painter 
of less merit; had had the honour of painting 
His Majesty King Charles I., his Queen, and 
many members of the Court; and had passed 
through the varying fortunes of a fashionable 
portrait-painter, whose position, leaning as it 
does on the fickle approbation of the connois- 
seurs, is always liable to be wrested from him by 
a younger rival. 

It is noticeable that this is the first letter in 
which we have intimation of the world's gossip 
about Dorothy's love affairs. We may, perhaps 
not unfairly, trace the growth of Dorothy's af- 
fection for Temple by the actions of others. 
First her brother raises his objections, and then 
her relations begin to gossip ; meanwhile the 
letters do not grow less kind. 



Sir, — You amaze me with your story of Tom 
Cheeke. I am certain he could not have had it 
where you imagine, and 'tis a miracle to me that 
he remember that there is such a one in the 
world as his cousin D. O. I am sure he has not 
seen her this six year, and I think but once in 
his life. If he has spread his opinion in that 
family, I shall quickly hear on't, for my cousin 
MoUe is now gone to Kimbolton to my Lord 



130 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

Manchester, and from there he goes to Moor 
Park to my cousin Franklin's, and in one, or 
both, he will be sure to meet with it. The mat- 
ter is not great, for I confess I do naturally hate 
the noise and talk of the world, and should be 
best pleased never to be known in't upon any 
occasion whatsoever ; yet, since it can never be 
wholly avoided, one must satisfy oneself by do- 
ing nothing that one need care who knows. I 
do not think a propos to tell anybody that you 
and I are very good friends, and it were better, 
sure, if nobody knew it but we ourselves. But 
if, in spite of all our caution, it be discovered, 
'tis no treason nor anything else that's ill ; and 
if anybody should tell me that I have had a 
greater kindness and esteem for you than for 
any one besides, I do not think I should deny it ; 
howsoever you do, oblige me by not owning any 
such thing, for as you say, I have no reason to 
take it ill that you endeavour to preserve me a 
liberty, though I'm never likely to make use on't. 
Besides that, I agree with you too that certainly 
'tis much better you should owe my kindness to 
nothing but your own merit and my inclination, 
than that there should lie any other necessity 
upon me of making good my words to you. 

For God's sake do not complain so that you do 
not see me ; I believe I do not suffer less in't 
than you, but 'tis not to be helped. If I had a 



Life at ChicJcsands 131 

picture that were fit for you, you should have it. 
I have but one that's anything like, and that's a 
great one, but I will send it some time or other 
to Cooper or Hoskins, and have a little one 
drawn by it, if I cannot be in town to sit myself. 
You undo me by but dreaming how happy we 
might have been, when I consider how far we 
are from it in reality. Alas ! how can you talk 
of defying fortune ; nobody lives without it, and 
therefore why should you imagine you could ? 
I know not how my brother comes to be so well 
informed as you say, but I am certain he knows 
the utmost of the injuries you have received from 
her. 'Tis not possible she should have used you 
worse than he says. We have had another de- 
bate, but much more calmly. 'Twas just upon 
his going up to town, and perhaps he thought it 
not fit to part in anger. Not to wrong him, he 
never said to me (whate'er he thought) a word 
in prejudice of you in your own person, and I 
never heard him accuse any but your fortune and 
my indiscretion. And whereas I did expect that 
(at least in compliment to me) he should have 
said we had been a couple of fools well met, he 
says by his troth he does not blame you, but bids 
me not deceive myself to think you have any 
great passion for me. 

If you have done with the first part of Cyrus^ 
I should be glad Mr. Hollingsworth had it, be- 



132 Love Letters fvom Dorothy Oahorne 

cause I mentioned some such thing in my last to 
my Lady ; but there is no haste of restoring the 
other unless she should send to me for it, which 
I believe she will not. I have a third tome here 
against you have done with that second ; and to 
encourage you, let me assure you that the more 
you read of them you will like them still better. 
Oh, me ! whilst I think on't, let me ask you one 
question seriously, and pray resolve me truly ; — 
do I look so stately as people apprehend ? I vow 
to you I made nothing on't when Sir Emperor 
said so, because I had no great opinion of his 
judgment, but Mr. Freeman makes me mistrust 
myself extremely, not that I am sorry I did ap- 
pear so to him (since it kept me from the dis- 
pleasure of refusing an offer which I do not per- 
haps deserve), but that it is a scurvy quality in 
itself, and I am afraid I have it in great measure 
if I showed any of it to him, for whom I have so 
much respect and esteem. If it be so you must 
needs know it ; for though my kindness will not 
let me look so upon you, you can see what I do 
to other people. And, besides, there was a time 
when we ourselves were indifferent to one an- 
other ; — did I do so then, or have I learned it 
since ? For God's sake tell me, that I may try 
to mend it. I could wish, too, that you would 
lay your commands on me to forbear fruit : here 
is enough to kill 1000 such as I am, and so ex- 



Tiife at Chicksands 133 

tremely good, that nothing but your power can 
secure me ; therefore forbid it me, that I may 
live to be 

Your. 

Letter 25. — Dorothy's dissertations on love and 
marriage are always amusing in their demureness. 
Who Cousin Peters was we cannot now say, but 
she was evidently a relation and a gossip. The 
episode concerning Mistress Harrison and the 
Queen is explained by the following quotation 
from the autobiography of the Countess of "War- 
wick. 

She is writing of Mr. Charles Kich, and says : 
" He was then in love with a Maid of Honour to 
the Queen, one Mrs. Hareson, that had been 
chamber-fellow to my sister-in-law whilst she lived 
at Court, and that brought on the acquaintance 
between him and my sister. He continued to be 
much with us for about five or six months, till 
my brother Broghill then (afterwards Earl of 
Orrery) grew also to be passionately in love with 
the same Mrs. Hareson. My brother then hav- 
ing a quarrel with Mr. Thomas Howard, second 
son to the Earl of Berkshire, about Mrs. Hareson 
(with whom he also was in love), Mr. Rich 
brought my brother a challenge from Mr. How- 
ard, and was second to him against my brother 
when they fought, which they did without any 
great hurt of any side, being parted. This action 
made Mr. Rich judge it not civil to come to our 
house, and so for some time forbore doing it ; but 
at last my brother's match with Mrs. Hareson 
being unhandsomely (on her side) broken off, 



134 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

when they were so near being married as the 
wedding clothes were to be made, and she after 
married Mr. Thomas Howard (to my father's 
great satisfaction), who always was averse to it, 
though, to comply with my brother's passion, he 
consented to it." There is a reference to the 
duel in a letter of Lord Cork, which fixes the 
date as 1639-40, but Mr. Nevile's name is no- 
where mentioned. 

Lord Broghill is well known to the history of 
that time, both literary and political. He was 
Roger Boyle, afterwards Earl of Orrery, the fifth 
son of the " great Earl of Cork." He acted for 
the Parliament against the Catholics in Ireland, 
but was still thought to retain some partiality 
for the King's party. Cromwell, however, con- 
sidered himself secure in Lord Broghill's attach- 
ment; and, indeed, he continued to serve not 
only Cromwell during his lifetime, but his son 
Richard, after his father's death, with great 
fidelity. Lord Broghill was active in forwarding 
the Restoration in Ireland, and in reward of his 
services was made Earl of Orrery. He died in 
1679. 

Sir, — You have furnished me now with argu- 
ments to convince my brother, if he should ever 
enter on the dispute again. In earnest, I be- 
lieved aU this before, but 'twas something an 
ignorant kind of faith in me. I was satisfied my- 
self, but could not tell how to persuade another 
of the truth on't; and to speak indifferently, 
there are such multitudes that abuse the names 



Life at ChicJcsands 135 

of love and friendship, and so very few that 
either understand or practise it in reality, that 
it may raise great doubts whether there is any 
such thing in the world or not, and such as do 
not find it in themselves will hardly believe 'tis 
anywhere. But it will easily be granted, that 
most people make haste to be miserable ; that 
they put on their fetters as inconsiderately as a 
woodcock runs into a noose, and are carried by 
the weakest considerations imaginable to do a 
thing of the greatest consequence of anything 
that concerns this world. I was told by one 
(who pretends to know him very Avell) that noth- 
ing tempted my cousin Osborne to marry his 
lady (so much) as that she was an Earl's daugh- 
ter ; which methought was the prettiest fancy, 
and had the least of sense in it, of any I had 
heard on, considering that it was no addition to 
her person, that he had honour enough before 
for his fortune, and how little it is esteemed in 
this age, — if it be anything in a better, — which 
for ray part I am not well satisfied in. Beside 
that, in this particular it does not sound hand- 
somely. My Lady Bridget Osborne makes a 
worse name a great deal, methinks, than plain 
my Lady Osborne would do. 

I have been studying how Tom Cheeke might 
come by his intelligence, and I verily believe he 
has it from my cousin Peters. She lives near 



136 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

them in Essex, and in all likelihood, for want of 
other discourse to entertain him withal, she has 
come out with all she knows. The last time I 
saw her she asked me for you before she had 
spoke six words to me ; and I, who of all things 
do not love to make secrets of trifles, told her I 
had seen you that day. She said no more, nor I 
neither ; but perhaps it worked in her little brain. 
The best on't is, the matter is not great, for 
though I confess I had rather nobody knew it, 
yet 'tis that I shall never be ashamed to own. 

How kindly do I take these civilities of your 
father's ; in earnest, you cannot imagine how his 
letter pleased me. I used to respect him merely 
as he was your father, but I begin now to owe it 
to himself; all that he says is so kind and so 
obliging, so natural and so easy, that one may 
see 'tis perfectly his disposition, and has nothing 
to disguise in it. 'Tis long since that I knew 
how well he writ, perhaps you have forgot that 
you showed me a letter of his (to a French 
Marquis, I think, or some such man of his ac- 
quaintance) when I first knew you ; I remember 
it very well, and that I thought it as handsome a 
letter as I had seen ; but I have not skill it seems, 
for I like yours too. 

I can pardon all my cousin Franklin's little 
plots of discovery, if she believed herself when 
she said she was confident our humours would 



Life at ChicJcsmids 137 

agree extremely well. In earnest, I think they 
do ; for I mark that I am always of your opinion, 
unless it be when you will not allow that you 
write well, for there I am too much concerned. 
Jane told me t'other day very soberly that we 
write very much alike. I think she said it with 
an intent to please me, and did not fail in't ; but 
if you write ill, 'twas no great compliment to me. 
A jpropos de Jane, she bids me tell you that, if 
you liked your marmalade of quince, she would 
send you more, and she thinks better, that has 
been made since. 

'Twas a strange caprice, as you say, of Mrs. 
Harrison, but there is fate as well as love in 
those things. The Queen took the greatest pains 
to persuade her from it that could be ; and (as 
somebody says, I know not who) " Majesty is no 
ill orator ; " but all would not do. When she had 
nothing to say for herself, she told her she had 
rather beg with Mr. Howard than live in the 
greatest plenty that could be with either my 
Lord Broghill, Charles Eich, or Mr. Nevile, — for 
all these were dying for her then. I am afraid 
she has altered her opinion since 'twas too late, 
for I do not take Mr. Howard to be a person that 
can deserve one should neglect all the world for 
him. And where there is no reason to uphold a 
passion, it will sink of itself ; but where there is, 
it may last eternally. — I am yours. 



138 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

Letter 26. 
Sir, — The day I should have received your 
letter I was invited to dine at a rich widow's 
(whom I think I once told you of, and offered my 
service in case you thought fit to make addresses 
there); and she was so kind, and in so good 
humour, that if I had had any commission I should 
have thought it a very fit time to speak. We 
had a huge dinner, though the company was only 
of her own kindred that are in the house with her 
and what I brought; but she is broke loose 
from an old miserable husband that lived so long, 
she thinks if she does not make haste she shall 
not have time to spend what he left. She is old 
and was never handsome, and yet is courted a 
thousand times more than the greatest beauty in 
the world would be that had not a fortune. We 
could not eat in quiet for the letters and presents 
that came in from people that would not have 
looked upon her when they had met her if she 
had been left poor. I could not but laugh to 
myself at the meanness of their humour, and was 
merry enough all day, for the company was very 
good; and besides, I expected to find when I 
came home a letter from you that would be more 
a feast and company to me than all that was 
there. But never anybody was so defeated as I 
was to find none. I could not imagine the reason, 
only I assured myself it was no fault of yours, 



liife at Chichsands 139 

but perhaps a just punishment upon me for hav- 
ing been too much pleased in a company where 
you were not. 

After supper my brother and I fell into dis- 
pute about riches, and the great advantages of 
it ; he instanced in the widow that it made one 
respected in the world. I said 'twas true, but 
that was a respect I should not at all value when 
I owed it only to my fortune. And we debated 
it so long till we had both talked ourselves 
weary enough to go to bed. Yet I did not sleep 
so well but that I chid my maid for waking me 
in the morning, till she stopped my mouth with 
saying she had letters for me. I had not patience 
to stay till I could rise, but made her tie up all 
the curtains to let in light ; and among some 
others I found my dear letter that was first to be 
read, and which made all the rest not worth the 
reading. I could not but wonder to find in it 
that my cousin Franklin should want a true 
friend when 'tis thought she has the best hus- 
band in the world ; he was so passionate for her 
before he had her, and so pleased with her since, 
that, in earnest, I did not think it possible she 
could have anything left to wish for that she had 
not already in such a husband with such a for- 
tune. But she can best tell whether she is happy 
or not ; only if she be not, I do not see how any- 
body else can hope it. I know her the least of 



140 Love Letters fi'om Dorothy Osborne 

all the sisters, and perhaps 'tis to my advantage 
that she knows me no more, since she speaks so 
obligingly of me. But do you think it was alto- 
gether without design she spoke it to you ? 
When I remember she is Tom Cheeke's sister, I 
am apt to think she might have heard his news, 
and meant to try whether there was anything of 
truth in't. My cousin MoUe, I think, means to 
end the summer there. They say, indeed, 'tis a 
very fine seat, but if I did not mistake Sir 
Thomas Cheeke, he told me there was never a 
good room in the house. I was wondering how 
you came by an acquaintance there, because I 
had never heard you speak that you knew them. 
I never saw him in my life, but he is famous for 
a kind husband. Only 'twas found fault with 
that he could not forbear kissing his wife before 
company, a foolish trick that young married men 
are apt to ; he has left it long since, I suppose. 
But, seriously, 'tis as ill a sight as one would 
wish to see, and appears very rude, methinks, to 
the company. 

What a strange fellow this goldsmith is, he has 
a head fit for nothing but horns. I chid him 
once for a seal he set me just of this fashion and 
the same colours. If he were to make twenty 
they should be all so, his invention can stretch 
no further than blue and red. It makes me 
think of the fellow that could paint nothing but 



Life at Chicksands 141 

a flower-de-luce, who, when he met with one that 
was so firmly resolved to have a lion for his sign 
that there was no persuading him out on't, 
" Well," says the painter, " let it be a lion then, 
but it shall be as like a flower-de-luce as e'er you 
saw." So, because you would have it a dolphin, 
he consented to it, but it is like an ill-favoured 
knot of ribbon. I did not say anything of my 
father's being ill of late ; I think I told you be- 
fore, he kept his chamber ever since his last sick- 
ness, and so he does still. Yet I cannot say that 
he is at all sick, but has so general a weakness 
upon him that I am much afraid their opinion of 
him has too much of truth in it, and do extremely 
apprehend how the winter may work upon him. 
Will you pardon this strange scribbled letter, and 
the disorderliness on't? I know you would, 
though I should not tell you that I am not so 
much at leisure as I used to be. You can for- 
give your friends anything, and when I am not 
the faithfullest of those, never forgive me. You 
may direct your letters how you please, here will 
be nobody to receive it but 

Your. 

Letter 27. — Althorp, in Northamptonshire, was 
the seat of Lady Sunderland's first husband, 
Kobert Lord Spencer. 

Sir, — Your last came safe, and I shall follow 



142 Love Letters from Dorothy Oshorn6 

your direction for the address of this, though, as 
you say, I cannot imagine what should tempt 
anybody to so severe a search for them, unless it 
be that he is not yet fully satisfied to what de- 
gree our friendship is grown, and thinks he may 
best inform himself from them. In earnest, 
'twould not be unpleasant to hear our discourse. 
He forms his with so much art and design, and is 
so pleased with the hopes of making some dis- 
covery, and I [who] know him as well as he does 
himself, cannot but give myself the recreation 
sometimes of confounding him and destroying all 
that his busy head had been working on since 
the last conference. He gives me some trouble 
with his suspicions ; yet, on my conscience, he is 
a greater to himself, and I deal with so much 
franchise as to tell him so ; and yet he has no 
more the heart to ask me directly what he would 
so fain know, than a jealous man has to ask (one 
that might tell him) whether he were a cuckold 
or not, for fear of being resolved of that which 
is yet a doubt to him. My eldest brother is not 
so inquisitive ; he satisfies himself with persuad- 
ing me earnestly to marry, and takes no notice 
of anything that may hinder me, but a careless- 
ness of my fortune, or perhaps an aversion to a 
kind of life that appears to have less of freedom 
in't than that which at present I enjoy. But, 
sure, he gives himself another reason, for 'tis not 



liife at Chichsands 143 

very long since he took occasion to inquire for 
you very kindly of me ; and though I could then 
give but little account of you, he smiled as if he 
did not altogether believe me, and afterwards 
maliciously said he wondered you did not marry. 
And I seemed to do so too, and said, if I knew 
any woman that had a great fortune, and were a 
person worthy of you, I should wish her you 
with all my heart. " But, sister," says he, " would 
you have him love her ? " " Do you doubt it ? " 
did I say ; " he were not happy in't else." He 
laughed, and said my humour was pleasant ; but 
he made some question whether it was natural 
or not. He cannot be so unjust as to let me lose 
him, sure, I was kind to him though I had some 
reason not to take it very well when he made 
that a secret to me which was known to so many 
that did not know him ; but we shall never fall 
out, I believe, we are not apt to it, neither of us. 
If you are come back from Epsom, I may ask 
you how you like drinking water? I have 
wished it might agree as well with you as it did 
with me ; and if it were as certain that the same 
thing would do us good as 'tis that the same 
thing would please us, I should not need to doubt 
it. Otherwise my wishes do not signify much, 
but I am forbid complaints, or to express my 
fears. And be it so, only you must pardon me if 
I cannot agree to give you false hopes ; I must 



144 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

be deceived myself before I can deceive you, and 
I have so accustomed myself to tell you all that 
I think, that I must either say nothing, or that 
which I believe to be true. 

I cannot say but that I have wanted Jane ; but 
it has been rather to have somebody to talk with 
of you, than that I needed anybody to put me in 
mind of you, and with all her diligence I should 
have often prevented her in that discourse. 
Were you at Althorp when you saw my Lady 
Sunderland and Mr. Smith, or are they in town ? 
I have heard, indeed, that they are very happy ; 
but withal that, as she is a very extraordinary 
person herself, so she aimed at doing extraordi- 
nary things, and when she had married Mr. 
Smith (because some people were so bold as to 
think she did it because she loved him) she un- 
dertook to convince the world that what she liad 
done was in mere pity to his sufferings, and that 
she could not go a step lower to meet anybody 
than that led her, though when she thought 
there were no eyes on her, she was more gracious 
to him. But perhaps this might not be true, or 
it may be she is now grown weary of that con- 
straint she put upon herself. I should have been 
sadder than yo\x if I had been their neighbour to 
have seen them so kind ; as I must have been if 
I had married the Emperor. He used to brag to 
me always of a great acquaintance he had there, 



Ijife at Chichsands 145 

what an esteem my lady bad for him, and had 
the vanity (not to call it impudence) to talk 
sometimes as if he would have had me believe he 
might have had her, and would not ; I'll swear I 
blushed for him when I saw he did not. He 
told me too, that though he had carried his ad- 
dresses to me with all the privacy that was pos- 
sible, because he saw I liked it best, and that 
'twas partly his own humour too, yet she had 
discovered it, and could tell that there had been 
such a thing, and that it was broke off again, she 
knew not why ; which certainly was a lie, as well 
as the other, for I do not think she ever heard 
there was such a one in the world as 

Your faithful friend. 

Letter 28. — Dorothy's allusion to the " Seven 
Sleepers " refers to a story which occurs in the 
Golden Legend and other places, of seven noble 
youths of Ephesus, who fled from persecution to 
a cave in Mount Celion. After two hundred and 
thirty years they awoke, but only to die soon 
afterwards. The fable is said to have arisen from 
a misinterpretation of the text, " They fell asleep 
in the Lord." 

Sir, — I did not lay it as a fault to your charge 
that you were not good at disguise ; if it be one, 
I am too guilty on't myself to accuse another. 
And though I have been told it shows an unprac- 
tisedness in the world, and betrays to all that un- 



146 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

derstand it better, yet since it is a quality I was 
not born with, nor ever like to get, I have always 
thought good to maintain that 'twas better not 
to need it than to have it. 

I give you many thanks for your care of my 
Irish dog, but I am extremely out of countenance 
your father should be troubled with it. Sure, he 
will think I have a most extravagant fancy ; but 
do me the right as to let him know I am not so 
possessed with it as to consent he should be em- 
ployed in such a commission. 

Your opinion of my eldest brother is, I think, 
very just, and when I said maliciously, I meant 
a French malice, which you know does not sig- 
nify the same with an English one. I know not 
whether I told it you or not, but I concluded 
(from what you said of your indisposition) that 
it was very like the spleen ; but perhaps I fore- 
saw you would not be willing to own a disease that 
the severe part of the world holds to be merely 
imaginary and affected, and therefore proper only 
to women. However, I cannot but wish you had 
stayed longer at Epsom and drunk the waters 
with more order though in a less proportion. 
But did you drink them immediately from the 
well ? I remember I was forbid it, and methought 
with a great deal of reason, for (especially at this 
time of year) the well is so low, and there is such 
a multitude to be served out on't, that you can 



liife at ChicTcsands 147 

hardly get any but what is thick and troubled ; 
and I have marked that when it stood all night 
(for that was my direction) the bottom of the 
vessel it stood in would be covered an inch thick 
with a white clay, which, sure, has no great vir- 
tue in't, and is not very pleasant to drink. 

What a character of a young couple you give 
me ! Would you would ask some one who knew 
him, whether he be not much more of an ass since 
his marriage than he was before. I have some 
reason to doubt that it alters people strangely. 
I made a visit t'other day to welcome a lady into 
this country whom her husband had newly 
brought down, and because I knew him, though 
not her, and she was a stranger here, 'twas a ci- 
vility I owed them. But you cannot imagine how 
I was surprised to see a man that I had known so 
handsome, so capable of being made a pretty gen- 
tleman (for though he was no proud philosopher, 
as the Frenchmen say, he was that which good 
company and a little knowledge of the world 
would have made equal to many that think them- 
selves very well, and are thought so), transformed 
into the direct shape of a great boy newly come 
from school. To see him wholly taken up with 
running on errands for his wife, and teaching her 
little dog tricks ! And this was the best of him ; 
for when he was at leisure to talk, he would suf- 
fer no one else to do it, and what he said, and the 



14:8 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

noise he made, if you had heard it, you would 
have concluded him drunk with joy that he had 
a wife and a pack of hounds. I was so weary 
on't that I made haste home, and could not but 
think of the change all the way till my brother 
(who was with me) thought me sad, and so, to 
put me in better humour, said he believed I re- 
pented me I had not this gentleman, now I saw 
how absolutely his wife governed him. But I 
assured him, that though I thought it very fit 
such as he should be governed, yet I should not 
like the employment by no means. It becomes 
no woman, and did so ill with this lady that in 
my opinion it spoiled a good face and a very fine 
gown. Yet the woman you met upon the way 
governed her husband and did it handsomely. It 
was, as you say, a great example of friendship, 
and much for the credit of our sex. 

You are too severe to "Walker. I'll undertake 
he would set me twenty seals for nothing rather 
than undergo your wrath. I am in no haste for 
it, and so he does it well we will not fall out ; 
perhaps he is not in the humour of keeping his 
word at present, and nobody can blame him if he 
be often in an ill one. But though I am merciful 
to him, as to one that has suffered enough already, 
I cannot excuse you that profess to be my friend 
and yet are content to let me live in such igno- 
rance, write to me every week, and yet never send 



Life at CMchsands 149 

me any of the new phrases of the town. I could 
tell you, without abandoning the truth, that it is 
part of your devoyre to correct the imperfections 
you find under my hand, and that my trouble re- 
sembles my wonder you can let me be dissatisfied. 
I should never have learnt any of these fine things 
from you ; and, to say truth, I know not whether 
I shall from anybody else, if to learn them be to 
understand them. Pray what is meant by well- 
ness and unwelhiess ; and why is to some extreme 
better than to soTne extreTnity f I believe I shall 
live here till there is quite a new language spoke 
where you are, and shall come out like one of the 
Seven Sleepers, a creature of another age. But 
'tis no matter so you understand me, though no- 
body else do, when I say how much I am 

Your faithful. 

Letter 29. 

SiK, — I can give you leave to doubt anything 
but my kindness, though I can assure you I spake 
as I meant when I said I had not the vanity to 
believe I deserv'd yours, for I am not certain 
whether 'tis possible for anybody to deserve that 
another should love them above themselves, 
though I am certain many may deserve it more 
than me. But not to dispute this with you, let 
me tell you that I am thus far of your opinion, 
that upon some natures nothing is so powerful as 



150 Love Letters from Dorothy Oshorn6 

kindness, and that I should give that to yours 
which all the merit in the world besides would 
not draw from me. I spake as if I had not done 
so already ; but you may choose whether you 
will believe me or not, for, to say truth, I do not 
much believe myself in that point. No, all 
the kindness I have or ever had is yours ; nor 
shall I ever repent it so, unless you shall ever re- 
pent yours. "Without telling you what the in- 
conveniences of your coming hither are, you may 
believe they are considerable, or else I should 
not deny you or myself the happiness of seeing 
one another ; and if you dare trust me where I 
am equally concerned with you, I shall take hold 
of the first opportunity that may either admit 
you here or bring me nearer you. Sure you 
took somebody else for my cousin Peters ? I can 
never believe her beauty able to smite anybody. 
I saw her when I was last in town, but she 
appear'd wholly the same to me, she was at St. 
Malo, with all her innocent good nature too, and 
asked for you so kindly, that I am sure she can- 
not have forgot you ; nor do I think she had so 
much address as to do it merely in compliment 
to me. Ko, you are mistaken certainly ; what 
should she do amongst all that company, unless 
she be towards a wedding ? She has been kept 
at home, poor soul, and suff er'd so much of purga- 
tory in this world that she needs not fear it in 



Life at Chicksands 151 

the next ; and yet she is as merry as ever she 
was, which perhaps might make her look young, 
but that she laughs a little too much, and that 
will bring wrinkles, they say. Oh, me ! now I 
talk of laughing, it makes me think of poor Jane. 
I had a letter from her the other day ; she de- 
sired me to present her humble service to her 
master, — she did mean you, sure, for she named 
everybody else that she owes any service to, — 
and bid me say that she would keep her word 
with him. God knows what you have agreed on 
together. She tells me she shall stay long enough 
there to hear from me once more, and then she 
is resolved to come away. 

Here is a seal, which pray give Walker to set 
for me very handsomely, and not of any of those 
fashions he made my others, but of something 
that may differ from the rest. 'Tis a plain head, 
but not ill cut, I think. My eldest brother is 
now here, and we expect my youngest shortly, 
and then we shall be altogether, which I do not 
think we ever were twice in our lives. My niece 
is still with me, but her father threatens to fetch 
her away. If I can keep her to Michaelmas I 
may perhaps bring her up to town myself, and 
take that occasion of seeing you ; but I have no 
other business that is worth my taking a journey, 
for I have had another summons from my aunt, 
and I protest I am afraid I shall be in rebellion 



152 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

there; but 'tis not to be helped. The widow 
writes me word, too, that I must expect her here 
about a month hence; and I find that I shall 
want no company, but only that which I would 
have, and for which I could willingly spare all 
the rest. Will it be ever thus ? I am afraid it 
will. There has been complaints made on me 
already to my eldest brother (only in general, or 
at least he takes notice of no more), what offers 
I refuse, and what a strange humour has pos- 
sessed me of being deaf to the advice of all my 
friends. I find I am to be baited by them all 
by turns. They weary themselves, and me too, 
to very little purpose, for to my thinking they 
talk the most impertinently that ever people did ; 
and I believe they are not in my debt, but think 
the same of me. Sometimes I tell them I will 
not marry, and then they laugh at me ; some- 
times I say, " Not yet," and they laugh more, 
and would make me believe I shall be old within 
this twelvemonth. I tell them I shall be wiser 
then. They say 'twill be to no purpose. Some- 
times we are in earnest and sometimes in jest, 
but always saying something since my brother 
Henry found his tongue again. If you were 
with me I could make sport of all this ; but 
" patience is my penance " is somebody's motto, 
and I think it must be mine. 

I am your. 



Life at Chichsands 153 

Letter 30. — Here is Lord Lisle's embassage 
discussed again ! We know that in the end it 
comes to nothing ; Whitelocke going, but with- 
out Temple. The statute commanding the mar- 
riage ceremony to be conducted before Justices 
of the Peace was passed in August 1653 ; it is to 
some extent by such references as these that the 
letters have been dated and grouped. The Mar- 
riage Act of 1653, with the other statutes of this 
period, have been erased from the Statute Book ; 
but a draft of it in Somers' Tracts remains to us 
for reference. It contained provisions for the 
names of those who intended being joined to- 
gether in holy matrimony to be posted, with cer- 
tain other particulars, upon the door of the 
common meeting-house, commonly called the 
parish church or chapel ; and after the space of 
three weeks the parties, with two witnesses, 
might go before a magistrate, who, having satis- 
fied himself, by means of examining witnesses on 
oath or otherwise, that all the preliminaries com- 
manded by the Act had been properly fulfilled, 
further superintended the proceedings to perfect 
the said intended marriage as follows: — The man 
taking the woman by the hand pronounced these 
words, " I, A. B., do hereby in the presence of 
God take thee C. D. to be my wedded wife, and 
do also in the presence of God, and before these 
Avitnesses, promise to be unto thee a loving and 
faithful husband." Then the woman in similar 
formula promises to be a " loviug, faithful, and 
obedient wife," and the magistrate pronounced 
the parties to be man and wife. This ceremony, 
and this only, was to be a legal marriage. It is 



154 Love Letters froTn Dorothy Osborne 

probable that parties might and did add a volun- 
tary religious rite to this compulsory civil cere- 
mony, as is done at this day in many foreign 
countries. 

Sir, — You cannot imagine how I was surpris'd 
to find a letter that began " Dear brother ; " I 
thought sure it could not belong at all to me, and 
was afraid I had lost one by it ; that you intended 
me another, and in your haste had mistook this 
for that. Therefore, till I found the permission 
you gave me, I had laid it by with a resolution 
not to read it, but to send it again. If I had 
done so, I had missed a great deal of satisfaction 
which I received from it. In earnest, I cannot 
tell you how kindly I take all the obliging things 
you say in it of me ; nor how pleased I should be 
(for your sake) if I were able to make good the 
character you give me to your brother, and that 
I did not owe a great part of it wholly to your 
friendship for me. I dare call nothing on't my 
own but faithfulness; that I may boast of with 
truth and modesty, since 'tis but a simple virtue ; 
and though some are without it, yet 'tis so abso- 
lutely necessary, that nobody wanting it can be 
worthy of any esteem. I see you speak well of 
me to other people, though you complain always 
to me. I know not how to believe I should mis- 
use your heart as you pretend ; I never had any 
quarrel to it, and since our friendship it has been 



Jjife at Chichsa/nds 155 

dear to me as my own. 'Tis rather, sure, that 
you have a mind to try another, than that any 
dislike of yours makes you turn it over to me ; 
but be it as it will, I am contented to stand to 
the loss, and perhaps when you have changed 
you will find so little difference that you'll be 
calling for your own again. Do but assure me 
that I shall find you almost as merry as my Lady 
Anne Wentworth is always, and nothing shall 
fright me from my purpose of seeing you as soon 
as I can with any conveniency. I would not 
have you insensible of our misfortunes, but I 
would not either that you should revenge them 
on yourself ; no, that shows a want of constancy 
(which you will hardly yield to be your fault) ; 
but 'tis certain that there was never anything 
more mistaken than the Roman courage, when 
they killed themselves to avoid misfortunes that 
were infinitely worse than death. You confess 
'tis an age since our story began, as is not fit for 
me to own. Is it not likely, then, that if my 
face had ever been good, it might be altered 
since then ; or is it as unfit for me to own the 
change as the time that makes it ? Be it as you 
please, I am not enough concerned in't to dispute 
it with you ; for, trust me, if you would not have 
my face better, I am satisfied it should be as it is ; 
since if ever I wished it otherwise, 'twas for your 
sake. 



156 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

I know not how I stumbled upon a news-book 
this week, and, for want of something else to do 
read it ; it mentions my Lord Lisle's embassage 
again. Is there any such thing towards ? I met 
with somebody else too in't that may concern 
anybody that has a mind to marry ; 'tis a wq\t 
form for it, that, sure, will fright the country 
people extremely, for they apprehend nothing 
like going before a Justice ; they say no other 
marriage shall stand good in law. In conscience, 
I believe the old one is the better ; and for my 
part I am resolved to stay till that comes in 
fashion again. 

Can your father have so perfectly forgiven 
already the injury I did him (since you will not 
allow it to be any to you), in hindering you of 
Mrs. Chambers, as to remember me with kind- 
ness ? 'Tis most certain that I am obliged to 
him, and, in earnest, if I could hope it might ever 
be in my power to serve him I would promise 
something for myself. But is it not true, too, 
that you have represented me to him rather as 
you imagine me than as I am ; and have you not 
given him an expectation that I shall never be 
able to satisfy ? If you have, I can forgive you, 
because I know you meant well in't ; but I have 
known some women that have commended others 
merely out of spite, and if I were malicious 
enough to envy anybody's beauty, I would cry 



Life at Chicksands 157 

it up to all that had not seen them ; there's no 
such way to make anybody appear less handsome 
than they are. 

You must not forget that you are some letters 
in my debt, besides the answer to this. If there 
were not conveniences of sending, I should per- 
secute you strangely. And yet you cannot won- 
der at it ; the constant desire I have to hear from 
you, and the satisfaction your letters give me, 
would oblige one that has less time to write 
often. But yet I know what 'tis to be in the 
town. I could never write a letter from thence 
in my life of above a dozen lines ; and though I 
see as little company as anybody that comes 
there, yet I always met with something or other 
that kept me idle. Therefore I can excuse it, 
though you do not exactly pay all that you owe, 
upon condition you shall tell me when I see you 
all that you should have writ if you had had 
time, and all that you can imagine to say to a 
person that is 

Your faithful friend. 

Letter 31. — Dorothy is in mourning for her 
youngest brother, Robert, who died about this 
time. As she does not mention his death to 
Temple, we may take it that he was, though her 
brother, practically a stranger to her, living away 
from Chicksands, and rarely visiting her. 

General Monk's brother, to whom Dorothy re- 



158 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

fers, was Mr, Nicholas Monk, vicar of Kelkhamp* 
ton, in Cornwall. General Monk's misfortune is no 
less a calamity than his marriage. The following 
extract from Guizot's Life of Monk will fully 
explain the allusion : " The return of the new 
admiral [Monk] was marked by a domestic event 
which was not without its influence on his public 
conduct and reputation. Unrefined tastes, and 
that need of repose in his private life which 
usually accompanies activity in public aifairs, 
had consigned him to the dominion of a woman 
of low character, destitute even of the charms 
which seduce, and whose manners did not belie 
the rumour which gave her for extraction a 
market stall, or even, according to some, a much 
less respectable profession. She had lived for 
some time past with Monk, and united to the in- 
fluence of habit an impetuosity of will and words 
difficult to be resisted by the tranquil apathy of 
her lover. It is asserted that she had managed, 
as long since as 1649, to force him to a marriage ; 
but this marriage was most certainly not declared 
until 1653." M. Guizot then quotes a letter, dated 
September 19, 1653, announcing the news of Gen- 
eral Monk's marriage, and this would about cor- 
respond with the presumed date of Dorothy's 
letter. Greenwich Palace was probably occupied 
by Monk at this time, and Dorothy meant to say 
that Ann Clarges would be as much at home in 
Greenwich Palace as, say, the Lord Protector's 
wife at Whitehall. 

Sir, — It was, sure, a less fault in me to make 
a scruple of reading your letter to your brother, 



Ijife at Chichsands 159 

"which in all likelihood I could not be concerned 
in, than for you to condemn the freedom you 
take of giving me directions in a thing where we 
are equally concerned. Therefore, if I forgive 
you this, you may justly forgive me t'other ; and 
upon these terms we are friends again, are we 
not ? No, stay ! I have another fault to chide 
you for. You doubted whether you had not writ 
too much, and whether I could have the patience 
to read it or not. Why do you dissemble so 
abominably; you cannot think these things? 
How I should love that plain-heartedness you 
speak of, if you would use it ; nothing is civil but 
that amongst friends. Your kind sister ought to 
chide you, too, for not writing to her, unless you 
have been with her to excuse it. I hope you 
have ; and pray take some time to make her one 
visit from me, and carry my humble service with 
you, and tell her that 'tis not my fault that you 
are no better. I do not think I shall see the 
town before Michaelmas, therefore you may 
make what sallies you please. I am tied here to 
expect my brother Peyton, and then possibly we 
may go up together, for I should be at home 
again before the term. Then I may show you 
my niece ; and you may confess that I am a kind 
aunt to desire her company, since the disadvan- 
tage of our being together will lie wholly upon 
me. But I must make it my bargain, that if I 



160 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

come you will not be frighted to see me ; you 
think, I'll warrant, you have courage enough to 
endure a worse sight. You may be deceived, 
you never saw me in mourning yet ; nobody 
that has will e'er desire to do it again, for their 
own sakes as well as mine. Oh, 'tis a most dis- 
mal dress, — I have not dared to look in the glass 
since I wore it ; and certainly if it did so ill with 
other people as it does with me, it would never 
be worn. 

You told me of writing to your father, but you 
did not say whether you had heard from him, or 
how he did. May not I ask it ? Is it possible 
that he saw me ? Where were my eyes that I 
did not see him, for I believe I should have 
guessed at least that 'twas he if I had ? They 
say you are very like him ; but 'tis no Avonder 
neither that I did not see him, for I saw not you 
when I met you there. 'Tis a place I look upon 
nobody in ; and it was reproached to me by a 
kinsman, but a little before you came to me, 
that he had followed me to half a dozen shops to 
see when I would take notice of him, and was at 
last going away with a belief 'twas not I, because 
I did not seem to know him. Other people make 
it so much their business to gape, that I'll swear 
they put me so out of countenance I dare not 
look up for my life. 

I am sorry for General Monk's misfortunes, 



Jjife at CJiicksands 161 

because you say he is your friend ; but other- 
wise she will suit well enough with the rest of 
the great ladies of the times, and become Green- 
wich as well as some others do the rest of the 
King's houses. If I am not mistalien, that Monk 
has a brother lives in Cornwall ; an honest gentle- 
man, I have heard, and one that was a great ac- 
quaintance of a brother of mine who was killed 
there during the war, and so much his friend that 
upon his death he put himself and his family into 
mourning for him, which is not usual, I think, 
where there is no relation of kindred. 

I will take order that my letters shall be left 
with Jones, and yours called for there. As long 
as your last was, I read it over thrice in less than 
an hour, though, to say truth, I had skipped some 
on't the last time. I could not read my own 
confession so often. Love is a terrible word, and 
I should blush to death if anything but a letter 
accused me on't. Pray be merciful, and let it 
run friendship in my next charge. My Lady 
sends me word she has received those parts of 
Cyrus I lent you. Here is another for you which, 
when you have read, you know how to dispose. 
There are four pretty stories in it, '■'■ VAmant 
Absented'' " L'Amant non Aiine^'' '* L'ATnant 
Jaloux^'' et " L'Amant dont La Madtresse est 
mortP Tell me which you have most compas- 
sion for when you have read what every one says 



162 Love Letters from l)orothy Oshorne 

for himself. Perhaps you will not think it so 
easy to decide which is the most unhappy, as you 
may think by the titles their stories bear. Only 
let me desire you not to pity the jealous one, for 
I remember I could do nothing but laugh at him 
as one that sought his own vexation. This, and 
the little journeys (you say) you are to make, will 
entertain you till I come ; which, sure, will be as 
soon as possible I can, since 'tis equally desired 
by you and your faithful. 

Letter 32. — Things being more settled in that 
part of the world, Sir John Temple is returning 
to Ireland, where he intends taking his seat as 
Master of the Kolls once again. Temple joins 
his father soon after this, and stays in Ireland a 
few months. 

Lady Ormond was the wife of the first Duke 
of Ormond. She had obtained her pass to go 
over to Ireland on August 24th, 1653. The Or- 
monds had indeed been in great straits for want 
of money, and in August 1652 Lady Ormond had 
come over from Caen, where they were then liv- 
ing, to endeavour to claim Cromwell's promise 
of reserving to her that portion of their estate 
which had been her inheritance. After great de- 
lays she obtained £500, and a grant of £2000 
per annum out of their Irish lands " lying most 
conveniently to Dunmore House." It must have 
been this matter that Dorothy had heard of when 
she questions " whether she will get it when she 
comes there." 



Ijife at ChicJcsands 163 

Francis Annesley, Lord Valentia, belonged to 
an ancient Nottinghamshire family, though he 
himself was born in Newport, Buckinghamshire. 
Of his daughter's marriage I can find nothing. 
Lord Yalentia was at this time Secretary of State 
at Dublin. 

Sir Justinian has at length found a second 
wife. Her name is Vere, and she is the daughter 
of Lord Leigh of Stoneleigh. Thus do Dorothy's 
suitors, one by one, recover and cease to lament 
her obduracy. When she declares that she would 
rather have chosen a chain to lead her apes in 
than marry Sir Justinian, she refers to an old 
superstition as to the ultimate fate of spinsters — 

Women, dying maids, lead apes in hell, 

runs the verse of an old play, and that is the 
whole superstition, the origin of which seems 
somewhat inexplicable. The phrase is thrice 
used by Shakespeare, and constantly occurs in 
the old burlesques and comedies ; in one instance, 
in a comedy entitled " Love's Convert " (1651), it 
is altered to " lead an ape in heaven.''"' Many will 
remember the fate of *' The young Mary Anne " 
in the famous Ingoldsby legend, "Bloudie 
Jacke : " — 

So they say she is now leading apes — 

Bloudie Jack, 
And mends bachelors' smallclothes below. 

No learned editor that I am acquainted with 
has been able to suggest an explanation of this 
curious expression, 



164 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

Sir, — All my quarrels to you are kind ones, 
for, sure, 'tis alike impossible for me to be angry 
as for you to give me the occasion ; therefore, 
when I chide (unless it be that you are not care- 
ful enough of yourself, and hazard too much a 
health that I am more concerned in than my 
own), you need not study much for excuses, I can 
easily forgive you anything but want of kind- 
ness. The judgment you have made of the four 
lovers I recommended to you does so perfectly 
agree with what I think of them, that I hope it 
will not alter when you have read their stories. 
VArtiant Ahsente has (in my opinion) a mistress 
so much beyond any of the rest, that to be in 
danger of losing her is more than to have lost 
the others ; V Amant nan Aime was an ass, 
under favour (notwithstanding the Pimicesse 
CleohuUne^s letter) ; his mistress had caprices that 
would have suited better with our Amant Jaloux 
than with anybody else ; and the Prince Artilie 
was much to blame that he outlived his belle 
Leontine. But if you have met with the begin- 
ning of the story of Amestris and Aglatides, you 
will find the rest of it in this part I send you 
now ; and 'tis, to me, one of the prettiest I have 
read, and the most natural. They say the gen- 
tleman that writes this romance has a sister that 
lives with him, a maid, and she furnishes him 
with all the little stories that come between, so 



JLife at Chicksands 165 

that he only contrives the main design ; and 
when he wants something to entertain his com- 
pany withal, he calls to her for it. She has an 
excellent fancy, sure, and a great wit ; but, I am 
sorry to tell it you, they say 'tis the most ill- 
favoured creature that ever was born. And 'tis 
often so ; how seldom do we see a person excel- 
lent in anything but they have some great defect 
with it that pulls them low enough to make them 
equal with other people ; and there is justice in't. 
Those that have fortunes have nothing else, and 
those that want it deserve to have it. That's but 
small comfort, though, you'll say ; 'tis confessed, 
but there is no such thing as perfect happiness in 
this world, those that have come the nearest it 
had many things to wish ; and, — bless me, 
w^hither am I going ? Sure, 'tis the death's head 
I see stand before me puts me into this grave dis- 
course (pray do not think I meant that for a con- 
ceit neither) ; how idly have I spent two sides of 
my paper, and am afraid, besides, I shall not 
have time to write two more. Therefore I'll 
make haste to tell you that my friendship for you 
makes me concerned in all your relations ; that I 
have a great respect for Sir John, merely as he is 
your father, and that 'tis much increased by his 
kindness to you ; that he has all my prayers and 
wishes for his safety ; and that you will oblige 
me in letting me know w^hen you hear any good 



166 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

news from him. He has met with a great deal 
of good company, I believe. My Lady Ormond, 
I am told, is waiting for a passage, and divers 
others ; but this wind (if I am not mistaken) is 
not good for them. In earnest, 'tis a most sad 
thing that a person of her quality should be re- 
duced to such a fortune as she has lived upon 
these late years, and that she should lose that 
which she brought, as well as that which was her 
husband's. Yet, I hear, she has now got some of 
her own land in Ireland granted her ; but 
whether she will get it when she comes there is, 
I think, a question. 

"We have a lady new come into this country 
that I pity, too, extremely. She is one of my 
Lord of Valentia's daughters, and has married an 
old fellow that is some threescore and ten, who 
has a house that is fitter for the hogs than for 
her, and a fortune that will not at all recompense 
the least of these inconveniences. Ah 1 'tis most 
certain I should have chosen a handsome chain 
to lead my apes in before such a husband ; but 
marrying and hanging go by destiny, they say. 
It was not mine, it seems, to have an emperor ; 
the spiteful man, merely to vex me, has gone and 
married my countrywoman, my Lord Lee's 
daughter. What a multitude of willow garlands 
I shall weave before I die ; I think I had best 
make them into faggots this cold weather, the 



Life at Chicksands 167 

flame they would make in a chimney would be of 
more use to me than that which was in the hearts 
of all those that gave them me, and would last as 
long. I did not think I should have got thus 
far. I have been so persecuted with visits all 
this week I have had no time to despatch any- 
thing of business, so that now I have done this I 
have forty letters more to write ; how much 
rather would I have them all to you than to any- 
body else ; or, rather, how much better would it 
be if there needed none to you, and that I could 
tell you without writing how much I am 

Yours. 



Letter 33. — Sir Thomas Peyton, we must re- 
member, had married Dorothy's eldest sister; 
she died many years ago, and Sir Thomas mar- 
ried again, in 1648, one Dame Cicely Swan, a 
widow, Avhose character Dorothy gives us. 

Lord Monmouth was the eldest son of the Earl 
of Monmouth, and was born in 1596. He was 
educated at Exeter College, Oxford. His literary 
work was, at least, copious, and included some 
historical writing, as well as the translations 
mentioned by Dorothy. He published, among 
other things. An Historical Relation of the 
United Provinces^ a History of the Wars in 
Flanders^ and a History of Venice. 

Sir John Suckling, in the following doggerel, 
hails our noble author with a flunkey's enthu- 
siasm, — 



168 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

It is so rare and new a thing to see 
Aught that belongs to young nobility 
In print, but their own clothes, that we must praise 
You, as we would do those first show the ways 
To arts or to new worlds. 

In such strain writes the author of Why so 
pale and wan^fond lover? and both the circum- 
stance and the doggerel should be very instruct- 
ive to the snobologist. 

The literary work of Lord Broghill is not un- 
known to fame, and Mr. Waller's verse is still 
read by us ; but I have never seen a history of 
the Civil Wars from Mr. Waller's pen, and can- 
not find that he ever published one. 

Prazimene and Polexander are two romances 
translated from the French, — the former, a neat 
little duodecimo ; the latter, a huge folio of more 
than three hundred and fifty closely-printed 
pages. The title-page of Prazimene^ a very good 
example of its kind, runs as follows : — '" Two de- 
lightful Novels, or the Unlucky Fair One ; being 
the Amours of Milistrate and Prazimene, Illus- 
trated with variety of Chance and Fortune. 
Translated from the French by a Person of 
Quality, London. Sold by Eben Tracy, at the 
Three Bibles on London Bridge." Polexander 
was " done into English by William Browne, 
Gent.," for the benefit and behoof of the Earl of 
Pembroke. 

William Fiennes, Lord Say and Sele, was one 
of the chiefs of the Independent party, a Kepub- 
lican, and one of the first to bear arms against 
the King. He had, for that day, extravagant 
notions of civil liberty, and on the disappoint- 
ment of his hopes, he appears to have retired to 



Life at Chicksands 169 

the Isle of Lundy, on the coast of Devon, and 
continued a voluntary prisoner there until Crom- 
welPs death. After the Kestoration he was made 
Lord Chamberlain of the Household, and Lord 
Privy Seal. He published some political tracts, 
none of which are now in existence ; and An- 
thony Wood mentions having seen other things 
of his, among which, maybe, was the romance 
that Dorothy had heard of, but which is lost to 
us. 

SiE, — Pray, let not the apprehension that 
others say fine things to me make your letters at 
all the shorter ; for, if it were so, I should not 
think they did, and so long you are safe. My 
brother Peyton does, indeed, sometimes send me 
letters that may be excellent for aught I know, 
and the more likely because I do not understand 
them ; but I may say to you (as to a friend) I do 
not like them, and have wondered that my sister 
(who, I may tell you too, and you will not think 
it vanity in me, had a great deal of wit, and was 
thought to write as well as most women in Eng- 
land) never persuaded him to alter his style, and 
make it a little more intelligible. He is an hon- 
est gentleman, in earnest, has understanding 
enough, and was an excellent husband to two 
very different wives, as two good ones could be. 
My sister was a melancholy, retired woman, and, 
besides the company of her husband and her 
books, never sought any, but could have spent £j. 



170 Love Letters from Doi'othy Osborne 

life much longer than hers was in looking to her 
house and her children. This lady is of a free, 
jolly humour, loves cards and company, and is 
never more pleased than when she sees a great 
many others that are so too. Now, with both 
these he so perfectly complied that 'tis hard to 
judge which humour he is more inclined to in 
himself; perhaps to neither, which makes it so 
much the more strange. His kindness to his first 
wife may give him an esteem for her sister ; but 
he was too much smitten with this lady to think 
of marrying anybody else, and, seriously, I could 
not blame him, for she had, and has yet, great 
loveliness in her ; she was very handsome, and is 
very good (one may read it in her face at first 
sight). A woman that is hugely civil to all peo- 
ple, and takes as generally as anybody that I 
know, but not more than my cousin MoUe's let- 
ters do, but which, yet, you do not like, you say, 
nor I neither, I'll swear ; and if it be ignorance 
in us both we'll forgive it one another. In my 
opinion these great scholars are not the best 
writers (of letters, I mean) ; of books, perhaps 
they are. I never had, I think, but one letter 
from Sir Justinian, but 'twas worth twenty of 
anybody's else to make me sport. It was the 
most sublime nonsense that in my life I ever 
read ; and yet, I believe, he descended as low as 
he could to come near my weak understanding. 



Life at ChicTcsands 171 

'Twill be no compliment after this to say I like 
your letters in themselves ; not as they come 
from one that is not indifferent to me, but, seri- 
ously, I do. All letters, methinks, should be free 
and easy as one's discourse ; not studied as an 
oration, nor made up of hard words like a charm. 
'Tis an admirable thing to see how some people 
will labour to find out terms that may obscure a 
plain sense. Like a gentleman I know, who 
would never say "the weather grew cold," but 
that " winter began to salute us." I have no pa- 
tience for such coxcombs, and cannot blame an 
old uncle of mine that threw the standish at his 
man's head because he writ a letter for him 
where, instead of saying (as his master bid him), 
" that he would have writ himself, but he had 
the gout in his hand," he said, " that the gout in 
his hand would not permit him to put pen to 
paper." The fellow thought he had mended it 
mightily, and that putting pen to paper was 
much better than plain writing. 

I have no patience neither for these transla- 
tions of romances. I met with Polexander and 
LHlliistre Bassa both so disguised that I, who 
am their old acquaintance, hardly know them; 
besides that, they were still so much French in 
words and phrases that 'twas impossible for one 
that understands not French to make anything 
of them. If poor Prazimene be in the same 



1Y2 Lo'oe Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

dress, I would not see her for the world. She 
has suffered enough besides. I never saw but 
four tomes of her, and was told the gentleman 
that writ her story died when those were finished. 
I was very sorry for it, I remember, for I liked 
so far as I had seen of it extremely. Is it not 
my good Lord of Monmouth, or some such hon- 
ourable personage, that presents her to the Eng- 
lish ladies ? I have heard many people wonder 
how he spends his estate. I believe he undoes 
himself with printing his translations. Nobody 
else will undergo the charge, because they never 
hope to sell enough of them to pay themselves 
withal. I was looking t'other day in a book of 
his where he translates Pipero as piper, and 
twenty words more that are as false as this. 

My Lord Broghill, sure, will give us something 
worth the reading. My Lord Saye, I am told, 
has writ a romance since his retirement in the 
Isle of Lundy, and Mr. Waller, they say, is 
making one of our wars, which, if he does not 
mingle with a great deal of pleasing fiction, can- 
not be very diverting, sure, the subject is so sad. 

But all this is nothing to my coming to town, 
you'll say. 'Tis confest ; and that I was willing 
as long as I could to avoid saying anything when 
I had nothing to say worth your knowing. I am 
still obliged to wait my brother Peyton and his 
lady coming. I had a letter from him this week, 



Jjife at Chichsands 173 

which I will send you, that you may see what 
hopes he gives. As little room as I have left, 
too, I must tell you what a present I had made 
me to-day. Two of the finest young Irish grey- 
hounds that e'er I saw ; a gentleman that serves 
the General sent them me. They are newly 
come over, and sent for by Henry Cromwell, he 
tells me, but not how he got them for me. How- 
ever, I am glad I have them, and much the more 
because it dispenses with a very unfit employ- 
ment that your father, out of his kindness to you 
and his civility to me, was content to take upon 
him. 

Letter 34. 

Sir, — Jane was so unlucky as to come out of 
town before your return, but she tells me she 
left my letter with Nan Stacy for you. I was in 
hope she would have brought me one from you ; 
and because she did not I was resolv'd to punish 
her, and kept her up till one o'clock telling me 
all her stories. Sure, if there be any truth in the 
old observation, your cheeks glowed notably ; 
and 'tis most certain that if I were with you, I 
should chide notably. "What do you mean to be 
so melancholy ? By her report your humour is 
grown insupportable. I can allow it not to be 
altogether what she says, and yet it may be very 
ill too ; but if you loved me you would not give 



174 JLove Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

yourself over to that which will infallibly kill 
you, if it continue. I know too well that our 
fortunes have given us occasion enough to com- 
plain and to be weary of her tyranny ; but, alas ! 
would it be better if I had lost you or you me ; 
unless we were sure to die both together, 'twould 
but increase our misery, and add to that which 
is more already than we can well tell how to 
bear. You are more cruel than she regarding a 
life that's dearer to me than that of the whole 
world besides, and which makes all the happiness 
I have or ever shall be capable of. Therefore, 
by all our friendship I conjure you and, by the 
power you have given me, command you, to pre- 
serve yourself with the same care that you would 
have me live. 'Tis all the obedience I require of 
you, and will be the greatest testimony you can 
give me of your faith. When you have promised 
me this, 'tis not impossible that I may promise 
you shall see me shortly ; though my brother 
Peyton (who says he will come down to fetch 
his daughter) hinders me from making the jour- 
ney in compliment to her. Tet I shall perhaps 
find business enough to carry me up to town. 
'Tis all the service I expect from two girls whose 
friends have given me leave to provide for, that 
some order I must take for the disposal of them 
may serve for my pretence to see you ; but then 
I must find you pleased and in good humour, 



Life at ChicTcsands 175 

Inerry as you were wont to be when we first 
met, if you will not have me show that I am 
nothing akin to my cousin Osborne's lady. 

But what an age 'tis since we first met, and 
how great a change it has wrought in both of 
us ; if there had been as great a one in my face, 
it could be either very handsome or very ugly. 
For God's sake, when we meet, let us design one 
day to remember old stories in, to ask one an- 
other by what degrees our friendship grew to 
this height 'tis at. In earnest, I am lost some- 
times with thinking on't; and though I can 
never repent the share you have in my heart, I 
know not whether I gave it you willingly or not 
at first. No, to speak ingenuously, I think you 
got an interest there a good while before I 
thought you had any, and it grew so insensibly, 
and yet so fast, that all the traverses it has met 
with since has served rather to discover it to me 
than at all to hinder it. By this confession you 
will see I am past all disguise with you, and that 
you have reason to be satisfied with knowing as 
much of my heart as I do myself. Will the 
kindness of this letter excuse the shortness on't ? 
For I have twenty more, I think, to write, and 
the hopes I had of receiving one from you last 
night kept me writing this when I had more 
time ; or if all this will not satisfy, make your 
own conditions, so you do not return it me by 



176 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

the shortness of yours. Your servant kisses your 

hands, and I am 

Your faithful. 

Letter 35. — This is written on the back of a 
letter of Sir Thomas Peyton to Dorothy, and is 
probably a postscript to Letter 34. Sir Thomas's 
letter is a good example of the stilted letter-writ- 
ing in vogue at that time, which Dorothy tells 
us was so much admired. The affairs that are 
troubling him are legal matters in connection 
with his brother-in-law Henry Oxenden's estate. 
There is a multitude of letters in the MSS. in 
the British Museum referring to this business ; 
but we are not greatly concerned with Oxenden's 
financial difficulties. Sir Edward Hales was a 
gentleman of noble family in Kent. There is one 
of the same name who in 1688 declares himself 
openly to be a Papist, and is tried under the 
Test Act. He is concerned in the same year in 
the escape of King James, providing him with a 
fishing-boat to carry him into France. This is 
in all probability the Sir Edward Hales referred 
to by Sir Thomas Peyton, unless it be a son of 
the same name. Here is the letter : — 

" Good Sister, — I am very sorry to hear the 
loss of our good brother, whose short time gives 
us a sad example of our frail condition. But I 
will not say the loss, knowing whom I write to, 
whose religion and wisdom is a present stay to 
support in all worldly accidents. 

" 'Tis long since we resolved to have given 



Life at Chicksands 177 

you a visit, and have relieved you of my daugh- 
ter. But I have had the following of a most 
laborious affair, which hath cost me the travel- 
ling, though in our own country style, fifty 
. . . ; and I have been less at home than 
elsewhere ever since I came from London ; 
which hath vext me the more in regard I have 
been detained from the desire I had of being 
with you before this time. Such entertainment, 
however, must all those have that have to do 
with such a purse-proud and wilful person as Sir 
Edward Hales. This next week being Michael- 
mas week, we shall end all and I be at liberty, I 
hope, to consider my own contentments. In the 
meantime I know not what excuses to make for 
the trouble I have put you to already, of which I 
grow to be ashamed ; and I should much more 
be so if I did not know you to be as good as you 
are fair. In both which regards I have a great 
honour to be esteemed, 

" My good sister, 
" Your faithful brother and servant, 
" Thomas Peyton. 
" Knowlton, Sept. 22, 1653." 

On the other side of Sir T. Peyton'' s Letter. 

Nothing that is paper can 'scape me when I 
have time to write, and 'tis to you. But that I 



178 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

am not willing to excite your envy, I would tell 
you how many letters I have despatched since I 
ended yours ; and if I could show them you 
'twould be a certain cure for it, for they are 
all very short ones, and most of them merely 
compliments, which I am sure you care not 
for. 

I had forgot in my other to tell you what Jane 
requires for the satisfaction of what you confess 
you owe her. You must promise her to be merry, 
and not to take cold when you are at the tennis 
court, for there she hears you are found. 

Because you mention my Lord Broghill and his 
wit, I have sent you some of his verses. My 
brother urged them against me one day in a dis- 
pute, where he would needs make me confess 
that no passion could be long lived, and that such 
as were most in love forgot that ever they had 
been so within a twelvemonth after they were 
married ; and, in earnest, the want of examples 
to bring for the contrary puzzled me a little, so 
that I was fain to bring out those pitiful verses 
of my Lord Biron to his wife, which was so poor 
an argument that I was e'en ashamed on't my- 
self, and he quickly laughed me out of counte- 
nance with saying they were just such as a mar- 
ried man's flame would produce and a wife 
inspire. I send you a love letter, too ; which, 
simple as you see, it was sent me in very good 



Life at Chicksands 179 

earnest, and by a person of quality, as I was told. 
If you read it when you go to bed, 'twill cer- 
tainly make your sleep approved. 

I am yours. 

Letter 36, — My Lady Carlisle was, as Dorothy 
says, " an extraordinary person." She was the 
daughter of Henry Percy, Earl of Northum- 
berland, and at the age of eighteen, against her 
father's will and under somewhat romantic cir- 
cumstances, married James Hay, Earl of Carlisle. 
Her sister married the Earl of Leicester, and she 
is therefore aunt to Lady Sunderland and Alger- 
non Sydney. She was a favourite attendant of 
Queen Henrietta, and there are evil rumours con- 
necting her name with that of Strafford. On 
Strafford's death, it is asserted that she trans- 
ferred her affections to Pym, to whom she is said 
to have betrayed the secrets of the Court. There 
seems little doubt that it was she who gave notice 
to Pym of the King's coming to the House to 
seize the five members. In 1648 she appears, 
however, to have assisted the Royalists with 
money for the purpose of raising a fleet to attack 
England, and at the Restoration she was received 
at Court, and employed herself in intriguing for 
the return of Queen Henrietta to England, which 
was opposed at the time by Clarendon and others. 
Soon after this, and in the year of the Restora- 
tion, she died suddenly. Poets of all grades, 
from Waller downwards, have sung of her beauty, 
vivacity, and wit ; and Sir Toby Matthew speaks 
of her as " too lofty and dignified to be capable 
of friendship, and having too great a heart to be 



180 Love Letters from Dorothy OsbornA 

susceptible of love," — an extravagance of compli- 
ment hardly satisfactory in this plain age. 

My Lord Paget, at whose house at Marlow Mr. 
Lely was staying, was a prominent loyalist both 
in camp and council chamber. He married 
Frances, the eldest daughter of the Earl of Hol- 
land, my Lady Diana's sister. 

Whether or not Dorothy really assisted young 
Sir Harry Yelverton in his suit for the hand of 
fair Lady Ruthin we cannot say, but they were 
undoubtedly married. Sir Harry Yelverton 
seems to have been a man of superior accomplish- 
ments and serious learning. He was at this time 
twenty years of age, and had been educated at 
St. Paul's School, London, and afterwards at 
Wadham College, Oxford, under the tutorship of 
Dr. Wilkins, Cromwell's brother-in-law, a learned 
and philosophical mathematician. He was ad- 
mitted gentleman commoner in 1650, and it is 
said " made great proficiency in several branches 
of learning, being as exact a Latin and Grecian 
as any in the university of his age or time." He 
succeeded to his father's title soon after coming 
of age, and took a leading part in the politics of 
the day, becoming Knight of the Shire of North- 
ampton in the Restoration Parliament. He 
was a high Tory, and a great defender of the 
Church and its ejected ministers, one of whom, 
Dr. Thomas Morton, the learned theologian, 
Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield, died in his 
house in 1659. He w^rote a discourse on the 
" Truth and Reasonableness of the Religion de- 
livered by Jesus Christ," a Preface to Dr. Mor- 
ton's work on Episcopacy, and a vindication of 



jL^fe at Chichsands 181 

the Church of England against the attacks of the 
famous Edward Bagshawe. 

In this letter Dorothy describes some husbands 
whom she could 7iot marry. See what she ex- 
pects in a lover ! Have we not here some local 
squires hit off to the life ? Could George Eliot 
herself have done more for us in like space ? 

Sir, — Why are you so sullen, and why am I 
the cause ? Can you believe that I do willingly 
defer my journey ? I know you do not. Why, 
then, should my absence now be less supportable 
to you than heretofore ? Nay, it shall not be 
long (if I can help it), and I shall break through 
all inconveniences rather than deny you anything 
that lies in my power to grant. But by your 
own rules, then, may I not expect the same from 
you ? Is it possible that all I have said cannot 
oblige you to a care of yourself ? What a 
pleasant distinction you make when you say 
that 'tis not melancholy makes you do these 
things, but a careless forgetfulness. Did ever 
anybody forget themselves to that degree that 
was not melancholy in extremity ? Good God ! 
how you are altered ; and what is it that has 
done it ? I have known you when of all the 
things in the world you would not have been 
taken for a discontent ; you were, as I thought, 
perfectly pleased with your condition ; what has 
made it so much worse since ? I know nothing 



182 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

you have lost, and am sure you have gained a 
friend that is capable of the highest degree of 
friendship you can propound, that has already 
given an entire heart for that which she received, 
and 'tis no more in her will than in her power 
ever to recall it or divide it; if this be not 
enough to satisfy you, tell me what I can do 
more? 

There are a great many ingredients must go to 
the making me happy in a husband. First, as 
my cousin Franklin says, our humours must agree ; 
and to do that he must have that kind of breed- 
ing that I have had, and used that kind of com- 
pany. That is, he must not be so much a country 
gentleman as to understand nothing but hawks 
and dogs, and be fonder of either than his wife ; 
nor of the next sort of them whose aim reaches 
no further than to be Justice of the Peace, and 
once in his life High Sheriff, who reads no book 
but statutes, and studies nothing but how to 
make a speech interlarded with Latin that may 
amaze his disagreeing poor neighbours, and fright 
them rather than persuade them into quietness. 
He must not be a thing that began the world in 
a free school, was sent from thence to the univer- 
sity, and is at his furthest when he reaches the 
Inns of Court, has no acquaintance but those of 
his form in these places, speaks the French he 
has picked out of old laws, and admires nothing 



Life at CJiicksands 183 

but the stories he has heard of the revels that 
were kept there before his time. He must not 
be a town gallant neither, that lives in a tavern 
and an ordinary, that cannot imagine how an 
hour should be spent without company unless it 
be in sleeping, that makes court to all the women 
he sees, thinks they believe him, and laughs and 
is laughed at equally. Nor a travelled Monsieur 
whose head is all feather inside and outside, that 
can talk of nothing but dances and duets, and has 
courage enough to wear slashes when every one 
else dies with cold to see him. He must not be 
a fool of no sort, nor peevish, nor ill-natured, nor 
proud, nor covetous; and to all this must be 
added, that he must love me and I him as much 
as we are capable of loving. Without all this, 
his fortune, though never so great, would not sat- 
isfy me ; and with it, a very moderate one would 
keep me from ever repenting my disposal. 

I have been as large and as particular in my 
descriptions as my cousin Molle is in his of Moor 
Park, — but that you know the place so well I 
would send it you, — nothing can come near his 
patience in writing it, but my reading on't. 
Would you had sent me your father's letter, it 
would not have been less welcome to me than to 
you ; and you may safely believe that I am 
equally concerned with you in anything. I should 
be pleased to see something of my Lady Carlisle's 



184 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

writing, because she is so extraordinary a person. 
I have been thinking of sending you my picture 
till I could come myself ; but a picture is but dull 
company, and that you need not ; besides, I can- 
not tell whether it be very like me or not, though 
'tis the best I ever had drawn for me, and Mr. 
Lilly [Lely] will have it that he never took more 
pains to make a good one in his life, and that was 
it I think that spoiled it. He was condemned for 
making the first he drew for me a little worse 
than I, and in making this better he has made it 
as unlike as t'other. He is now, I think, at my 
Lord Pagett's at Marloe [Mario w], where I am 
promised he shall draw a picture of my Lady for 
me, — she gives it me, she says, as the greatest 
testimony of her friendship to me, for by her own 
rule she is past the time of having pictures taken 
of her. After eighteen, she says, there is no face 
but decays apparently ; I would fain have had 
her excepted such as had never been beauties, for 
my comfort, but she would not. 

When you see your friend Mr. Heningham, you 
may tell him in his ear there is a willow garland 
coming towards him. He might have sped bet- 
ter in his suit if he had made court to me, as well 
as to my Lady Ruthin. She has been my wife 
this seven years, and whosoever pretends there 
must ask my leave. I have now given my con- 
seiit that she shall marry a very pretty little gen- 



Life at ChicTcsands 185 

tleraan, Sir Christopher Yelverton's son, and I 
think we shall have a wedding ere it be long. 
My Lady her mother, in great kindness, would 
have recommended Heningham to me, and told 
me in a compliment that I was fitter for him than 
her daughter, who was younger, and therefore 
did not understand the world so well ; that she 
was certain if he knew me he would be extremely 
taken, for I would make just that kind of wife he 
looked for. I humbly thanked her, but said I was 
certain he would not make that kind of husband 
I looked for, — and so it went no further. 

I expect my eldest brother here shortly, whose 
fortune is well mended by my other brother's 
death, so as if he were satisfied himself with what 
he has done, I know no reason why he might not 
be very happy ; hut I am afraid he is not. I have 
not seen ray sister since I knew she was so ; but, 
sure, she can have lost no beauty, for I never saw 
any that she had, but good black eyes, which can- 
not alter. He loves her, I think, at the ordinary 
rate of husbands, but not enough, I believe, to 
marry her so much to his disadvantage if it were 
to do again ; and that would kill me were I as 
she, for I could be infinitely better satisfied with 
a husband that had never loved me in hopes he 
might, than with one that began to love me less 
than he had done. 

I am yours. 



186 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

Letter 37. 
Sir, — You say I abuse you ; and Jane says 
you abuse me when you say you are not melan- 
choly : which is to be believed ? Neither, I 
think ; for I could not have said so positively (as 
it seems she did) that I should not be in town till 
my brother came back : he was not gone when 
she writ, nor is not yet ; and if my brother 
Peyton had come before his going, I had spoiled 
her prediction. But now it cannot be ; he goes 
on Monday or Tuesday at farthest. I hope you 
did truly with me, too, in saying that you are 
not melancholy (though she does not believe it). 
I am thought so, many times, when I am not at 
all guilty on't. How often do I sit in company a 
whole day, and when they are gone am not able to 
give an account of six words that was said, and 
many times could be so much better pleased with 
the entertainment my own thoughts give me, that 
'tis all I can do to be so civil as not to let them 
see they trouble me. This may be your disease. 
However, remember you have promised me to 
be careful of yourself, and that if I secure what 
you have entrusted me with, you will answer for 
the rest. Be this our bargain then; and look 
that you give me as good an account of one as I 
shall give you of t'other. In earnest, I was 
strangely vexed to see myself forced to disap- 
point you so, and felt your trouble and my own 



Life at Chicicsands 18Y 

too. How often I have wished myself with you, 
though but for a day, for an hour : I would have 
given all the time I am to spend here for it with 
all my heart. 

You could not but have laughed if you had 
seen me last night. My brother and Mr. Gibson 
were talking by the fire ; and I sat by, but as no 
part of the company. Amongst other things 
(which I did not at all mind), they fell into a 
discourse of flying ; and both agreed it was very 
possible to find out a way that people might fly 
like birds, and despatch their journeys : so I, that 
had not said a word all night, started up at that, 
and desired they would say a little more on't, for 
I had not marked the beginning ; but instead of 
that, they both fell into so violent a laughing, 
that I should appear so much concerned in such 
an art ; but they little knew of what use it might 
have been to me. Yet I saw you last night, but 
'twas in a dream ; and before I could say a word 
to you, or you to me, the disorder my joy to see 
you had put me into awakened me. Just now I 
was interrupted, too, and called away to enter- 
tain two dumb gentlemen ; — you may imagine 
whether I was pleased to leave my writing to you 
for their company ; — they have made such a 
tedious visit, too ; and I am so tired with making 
of signs and tokens for everything I had to say. 
Good God ! how do those that live with them al- 



188 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

ways ? They are brothers ; and the eldest is a 
baronet, has a good estate, a wife and three or 
four children. He was my servant heretofore, 
and comes to see me still for old love's sake ; but 
if he could have made me mistress of the world 
I could not have had him ; and yet I'll swear he 
has nothing to be disliked in him but his want 
of tongue, which in a woman might have been a 
virtue. 

I sent you a part of Cyrus last week, where 
you will meet with one Doralise in the story of 
Abradah and Panthee. The whole story is very 
good ; but the humour makes the best part of it. 
I am of her opinion in most things that she says 
in her character of " L^honnest homme " that she 
is in search of, and her resolution of receiving no 
heart that had been offered to anybody else. 
Pray, tell me how you like her, and what fault 
you find in my Lady Carlisle's letter ? Methinks 
the hand and the style both show her a great 
person, and 'tis writ in the way that's now 
affected by all that pretend to wit and good 
breeding ; only, I am a little scandalized to con- 
fess that she uses that word faithful, — she that 
never knew how to be so in her life. 

I have sent you my picture because you wished 
for it ; but, pray, let it not presume to disturb my 
Lady Sunderland's. Put it in some corner where 
no eyes may find it out but yours, to whom it is 



Life at Chichsands 189 

only intended. 'Tis not a very good one, but 
the best I shall ever have drawn of me ; for, as 
ray Lady says, my time for pictures is past, and 
therefore I have always refused to part with this, 
because I was sure the next would be a worse. 
There is a beauty in youth that every one has 
once in their lives ; and I remember my mother 
used to say there was never anybody (that was 
not deformed) but were handsome, to some 
reasonable degree, once between fourteen and 
twenty. It must hang with the light on the left 
hand of it ; and you may keep it if you please till 
I bring you the original. But then I must bor- 
row it (for 'tis no more mine, if you like it), be- 
cause my brother is often bringing people into 
my closet where it hangs, to show them other 
pictures that are there ; and if he miss this long 
thence, 'twould trouble his jealous head. 

You are not the first that has told me I knew 
better what quality I would not have in a hus- 
band than what I would ; but it was more pardon- 
able in them. I thought you had understood 
better what kind of person I liked than any- 
body else could possibly have done, and therefore 
did not think it necessary to make you that 
description too. Those that I reckoned up were 
only such as I could not be persuaded to have 
upon no terms, though I had never seen such a 
person in my life as Mr. Temple : not but that 



190 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

all those may make very good husbands to some 
women ; but they are so different from my 
humour that 'tis not possible we should ever 
agree ; for though it might be reasonably enough 
expected that I should conform mine to theirs 
(to my shame be it spoken), I could never do it. 
And I have lived so long in the world, and so 
much at my own liberty, that whosoever has 
me must be content to take me as they find me, 
without hope of ever making me other than I 
am. I cannot so much as disguise ray humour. 
When it was designed that I should have had 
Sir Jus., my brother used to tell he was confident 
that, with all his wisdom, any woman that had 
wit and discretion might make an ass of him, and 
govern him as she pleased. I could not deny 
that possibly it might be so, but 'twas that I was 
sure I could never do ; and though 'tis likely I 
should have forced myself to so much compliance 
as was necessary for a reasonable wife, yet 
farther than that no design could ever have 
carried me ; and I could not have flattered him 
into a belief that I admired him, to gain more 
than he and all his generation are worth. 

'Tis such an ease (as you say) not to be solici- 
tous to please others : in earnest, I am no more 
concerned whether people think me handsome or 
ill-favoured, whether they think I have wit or 
that I have none, than I am whether they think 



Itife at Ohichsands 191 

my name Elizabeth or Dorothy. I would do 
nobody no injury ; but I should never design to 
please above one ; and that one I must love too, 
or else I should think it a trouble, and conse- 
quently not do it. I have made a general con- 
fession to you ; will you give me absolution ? 
Methinks you should ; for you are not much 
better by your own relation ; therefore 'tis easiest 
to forgive one another. When you hear any- 
thing from your father, remember that I am his 
humble servant, and much concerned in his good 

health. 

I am yours. 

Letter 38. — Lady Isabella is Lady Isabella 
Rich, my Lady Diana's eldest sister. She mar- 
ried Sir James Thynne. Many years ago she 
had an intrigue with tlie Duke of Ormond, by 
whom she had a son, but Dorothy speaks, I 
think, of some later scandal than this. 

My Lady Pembroke was the daughter of the 
Earl of Cumberland. She first married Richard 
Earl of Dorset, and afterwards the Earl of Pem- 
broke. She is described as a woman whose mind 
was endowed by nature with very extraordinary 
attributes. Lord Pembroke, on the other hand, 
according to Clarendon, pretended to no other 
qualification " than to understand horses and 
dogs very well, and to be believed honest and 
generous." His stables vied with palaces, and 
his falconry was furnished at immense expense ; 
but in his private life he was characterized by 



192 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

gross ignorance and vice, and his public charac- 
ter was marked by ingratitude and instability. 
The life of Lady Pembroke was embittered by 
this man for near twenty years, and she was at 
length compelled to separate from him. She 
lived alone, until her husband's death, which 
took place in January 1650. One can understand 
that they Avere entirely unsuited to each other, 
when Lady Pembroke in her Memorials is found 
to write thus of her husband : " He was no 
scholar, having passed but three or four months 
at Oxford, when he was taken thence after his 
father's death. He was of quick apprehension, 
sharp understanding, very crafty withal ; of a 
discerning spirit, but a choleric nature, increased 
by the office he held of Chamberlain to the 
King." Why, then, did the accomplished Lady 
Anne Clifford unite herself to so worthless a per- 
son ? Does she not answer this question for us 
when she writes that he was " the greatest noble- 
man in England " ? 

It is of some interest to us to remember that 
Francis Osborne, Dorothy's uncle (her father's 
youngest brother), was Master of the Horse to 
this great nobleman. 

Whether Lord and Lady Leicester were, as 
Dorothy says, "in great disorder" at this time, 
it is impossible to say. Lady Leicester is said to 
have been of a warm and irritable temper, and 
Lord Leicester is described by Clarendon as 
"staggering and irresolute in his nature." How- 
ever, nothing is said of their quarrels ; but, on 
the other hand, there is a very pathetic account 
in Lord Leicester's journal of his wife's death in 



Itife at Chicksands 193 

1659, which shows that, whatever this " disorder" 
may have been, a complete reconciliation was 
afterwards effected. 



Sir, — You would have me say something of 
my coming, Alas ! how fain I would have some- 
thing to say, but I know no more than you saw 
in that letter I sent you. How willingly would 
I tell you anything that I thought would please 
you ; but I confess I do not like to give uncer- 
tain hopes, because I do not care to receive them. 
And I thought there was no need of saying I 
would be sure to take the first occasion, and that 
I waited with impatience for it, because I hoped 
you had believed all that already ; and so you 
do, I am sure. Say what you will, you cannot 
but know my heart enough to be assured that I 
wish myself with you, for my own sake as well 
as yours. 'Tis rather that you love to hear me 
say it often, than that you doubt it ; for I am no 
dissembler. I could not cry for a husband that 
were indifferent to me (like your cousin) ; no, nor 
for a husband that I loved neither. I think 
'twould break my heart sooner than make me 
shed a tear. 'Tis ordinary griefs that make me 
weep. In earnest, you cannot imagine how often 
I have been told that I had too much franchise 
in my humour, and that 'twas a point of good 
breeding to disguise handsomely ; but I answered 



194 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

still for myself, that 'twas not to be expected I 
should be exactly bred, that had never seen a 
Court since I was capable of anything. Yet I 
know so much, — that my Lady Carlisle would 
take it very ill if you should not let her get the 
point of honour ; 'tis all she aims at, to go be- 
yond everybody in compliment. But are you 
not afraid of giving me a strong vanity with 
telling me I write better than the most extra- 
ordinary person in the world ? If I had not the 
sense to understand that the reason why you 
like my letters better is only because they are 
kinder than hers, such a word might have un- 
done me. 

But my Lady Isabella, that speaks, and looks, 
and sings, and plays, and all so prettily, why 
cannot I say that she is free from faults as her 
sister believes her ? No ; I am afraid she is not, 
and sorry that those she has are so generally 
known. My brother did not bring them for an 
example ; but I did, and made him confess she 
had better have married a beggar than that beast 
with all his estate. She cannot be excused ; but 
certainly they run a strange hazard that have 
such husbands as makes them think they cannot 
be more undone, whatever course they take. 
Oh, 'tis ten thousand pities ! I remember she 
was the first woman that ever I took notice of 
for extremely handsome ; and, in earnest, she 



Life at Chichsands 195 

was then the loveliest lady that could be looked 
on, I think. But what should she do with beauty 
now ? Were I as she, I should hide myself from 
all the world ; I should think all people that 
looked on me read it in my face and despised me 
in their hearts ; and at the same time they made 
me a leg, or spoke civilly to me, I should believe 
they did not think I deserved their respect. I'll 
tell you who he urged for an example though, 
my Lord Pembroke and my Lady, who, they 
say, are upon parting after all his passion for 
her, and his marrying her against the consent of 
all his friends ; but to that I answered, that 
though he pretended great kindness he had for 
her, I never heard of much she had for him, and 
knew she married him merely for advantage. 
Kor is she a woman of that discretion as to do 
all that might become her, when she must do it 
rather as things fit to be done than as things she 
inclined to. Besides that, what with a spleen- 
atick side and a chemical head, he is but an odd 
body himself. 

But is it possible what they say, that my Lord 
Leicester and my Lady are in great disorder, and 
that after forty years' patience he has now taken 
up the cudgels and resolved to venture for the 
mastery? Methinks he wakes out of his long 
sleep like a froward child, that wrangles and 
fights with all that comes near it. They say he 



196 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

has turned away almost every servant in the 
house, and left her at Penshurst to digest it as 
she can. 

What an age do we live in, where 'tis a miracle 
if in ten couples that are married, two of them 
live so as not to publish to the w^orld that they 
cannot agree. I begin to be of your opinion of 
him that (when the Roman Church first pro- 
pounded whether it were not convenient for 
priests not to marry) said that it might be con- 
venient enough, but sure it was not our Saviour's 
intention, for He commanded that all should take 
up their cross and follow Him ; and for his part, 
he was confident there was no such cross as a 
wife. This is an ill doctrine for me to preach ; 
but to my friends I cannot but confess that I am 
afraid much of the fault lies in us ; for I have 
observed that formerly, in great families, the men 
seldom disagree, but the women are always scold- 
ing ; and 'tis most certain, that let the husband 
be what he will, if the wife have but patience 
(which, sure, becomes her best), the disorder can- 
not be great enough to make a noise ; his anger 
alone, when it meets with nothing that resists it, 
cannot be loud enough to disturb the neighbours. 
And such a wife may be said to do as a kins- 
woman of ours that had a husband who was not 
always himself ; and when he was otherwise, his 
humour w^as to rise in the night, and with two 



Life at Chicksands 197 

bedstaves labour on the table an hour together. 
She took care every night to lay a great cushion 
upon the table for him to strike on, that nobody 
might hear him, and so discover his madness. 
But 'tis a sad thing when all one's happiness is 
only that the world does not know you are mis- 
erable. 

For my part, I think it were very convenient 
that all such as intend to marry should live to- 
gether in the same house some years of proba- 
tion ; and if, in all that time, they never dis- 
agreed, they should then be permitted to marry 
if they please ; but how few would do it then ! 
I do not remember that I ever saw or heard of 
any couple that were bred up so together (as 
many you know are, that are designed for one 
another from children), but they always disliked 
one another extremely ; parted, if it were left in 
their choice. If people proceeded with this cau- 
tion, the world would end sooner than is ex- 
pected, I believe; and because, with all my 
wariness, 'tis not impossible but I may be caught, 
nor likely that I should be wiser than anybody 
else, 'twere best, I think, that I said no more on 
this point. 

"What would I give to know that sister of 
yours that is so good at discovering ; sure she is 
excellent company ; she has reason to laugh at 
you when you would have persuaded her th^ 



198 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

" moss was sweet." I remember Jane brought 
some of it to me, to ask me if I thought it had 
no ill smell, and whether she might venture to 
put it in the box or not. I told her as I thought, 
she could not put a more innocent thing there, 
for I did not find it had any smell at all ; besides, 
I was willing'it should do me some service in re- 
quital for the pains I had taken for it. My niece 
and I wandered through some eight hundred 
acres of wood in search of it, to make rocks and 
strange things that her head is full of, and she 
admires it more than you did. If she had known 
I had consented it should have been used to fill 
up a box, she would have condemned me ex- 
tremely. I told Jane that you liked her present, 
and she, I find, is resolved to spoil your compli- 
ment, and make you confess at last that they are 
not worth the eating ; she threatens to send you 
more, but you would forgive her if you saw how 
she baits me every day to go to London ; all that 
I can say will not satisfy her. When I urge (as 
'tis true) that there is a necessity of my stay 
here, she grows furious, cries you will die with 
melancholy, and confounds me so with stories of 
your ill-humour, that I'll swear I think I should 
go merely to be at quiet, if it were possible, 
though there were no other reason for it. But I 
hope 'tis not so ill as she would have me believe 
it, though I know your humour is strangely al- 



Life at Chichsands 199 

tered from what it was, and am sorry to see it. 
Melancholy must needs do you more hurt than 
to another to whom it may be natural, as I think 
it is to me ; therefore if you loved me you would 
take heed on't. Can you believe that you are 
dearer to me than the whole world beside, and 
yet neglect yourself ? If you do not, you wrong 
a perfect friendship ; and if you do, you must 
consider my interest in you, and preserve your- 
self to make me happy. Promise me this, or I 
shall haunt you worse than she does me. Scrib- 
ble how you please, so you make your letter long 
enough ; you see I give you good example ; be- 
sides, I can assure you we do perfectly agree if 
you receive not satisfaction but from my letters, 
I have none but what yours give me. 

Letter 39. — Dorothy has been in London since 
her last letter, but unfortunately she has either 
not met with Temple, or he has left town sud- 
denly whilst she was there, on some unexplained 
errand. This would therefore seem a natural 
place to begin a new chapter ; but as we have 
very shortly to come to a series of unhappy let- 
ters, quite distinct in their character from these, 
I have thought fit to place in this long chapter 
yet a few more letters after Dorothy's autumn 
visit to London. 

Stephen Marshall was, like Hugh Peters, one 
of those preachers who was able to exchange the 
obscurity of a country parish for the public famQ 



200 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

of a London pulpit, by reason of a certain gift of 
rhetorical power, the value of which it is impos- 
sible to estimate to-day. Such of his sermons as 
are still extant are prosy, long-winded, dogmatic 
absurdities, overloaded with periphrastic illustra- 
tions in scriptural language. They are meaning- 
less to a degree, which would make one wonder 
at the docility and patience of a seventeenth 
century congregation, if one had not witnessed a 
similar spirit in congregations of to-day. 

There is no honest biography of Stephen Mar- 
shall. In the news-books and tracts of the day 
we find references to sermons preached by him, 
by command, before the Army of the Parlia- 
ment, and we have reprints of some of these. I 
have searched in vain to find the sermon which 
Dorothy heard, but it was probably not a sermon 
given on any great occasion, and we may believe 
it was never printed. There is an amusing scan- 
dalous tract, called the Life and Death of 
Stephen Marshall, which is so full of " evil speak- 
ing, lying, and slandering," as to be quite un- 
worthy of quotation. From this we may take it, 
however, that he was born at Gormanchester, in 
Cromwell's county, was educated at Emmanuel 
College, Cambridge, and that before he came to 
London his chief cure of souls was at Finching- 
field in Essex. These, and the records of his 
London preaching, are the only facts in his life's 
history which have come to my notice. 

My Lord Whitelocke did go to Sweden, as 
Dorothy surmises ; setting sail from Pl3rtnouth 
with one hundred honest men, on October 26, 
1653, or very soon afterwards, as one may read 



Life at Chicksands 201 

in his journal of the progress of the Embassy. 
That he should fill this office, appears to have 
been proposed to him by Cromwell in September 
of this year. 

An Act of Parliament to abolish the Chancery 
was indeed passed in the August of this year. 
Well may Lord Keble sore lament, and the rest 
of the world rejoice, at such news. Joseph 
Keble was a well-known law reporter, a son of 
Serjeant Eichard Keble. He was a Fellow of All 
Souls, and a Bencher of Gray's Inn ; and, further- 
more, was one of the Lords Commissioners of the 
Great Seal from 1648-1654. There was " some 
debate," says Whitelocke, " whether they should 
be styled ' Commissioners ' or ' Lords Commis- 
sioners,' " and though the word Lords was far 
less acceptable at this time than formerly, yet 
that they might not seem to lessen their own 
authority, nor the honour of their office con- 
stituted by them, they voted the title to be 
" Lords Commissioners." 



SiE, — If want of kindness were the only crime 
I exempted from pardon, 'twas not that I had the 
least apprehension you could be guilty of it ; but 
to show you (by excepting only an impossible 
thing) that I excepted nothing. No, in earnest, 
I can fancy no such thing of jou, or if I could, 
the quarrel would be to myself ; I should never 
forgive my own folly that let me to choose a 
friend that could be false. But I'll leave this 
(which is not much to the purpose) and tell you 



202 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

how, with my usual impatience, I expected your 
letter, and how cold it went to my heart to see 
it so short a one. 'Twas so great a pain to me 
that I am resolv'd you shall not feel it; nor can 
I in justice punish you for a fault unwillingly 
committed. If I were your enemy, I could not 
use you ill when I saw Fortune do it too, and in 
gallantry and good nature both, I should think 
myself rather obliged to protect you from her in- 
jury (if it lay in my power) than double them 
upon you. These things considered, I believe 
this letter will be longer than ordinary, — kinder 
I think it cannot be. I always speak my heart 
to you ; and that is so much your friend, it never 
furnishes me with anything to your disadvan- 
tage. I am glad you are an admirer of Telesile 
as well as I ; in my opinion 'tis a fine Lady, but 
I know you will pity poor Amestris strongly 
when you have read her story. I'll swear I cried 
for her when I read it first, though she were but 
an imaginary person ; and, sure, if anything of 
that kind can deserve it, her misfortunes may. 

God forgive me, I was as near laughing yester- 
day where I should not. Would you believe that 
I had the grace to go hear a sermon upon a week 
day ? In earnest, 'tis true ; a Mr. Marshall was 
the man that preached, but never anybody was 
so defeated. He is so famed that I expected rare 
things of him, and seriously I listened to him as 



Life at Chichsands 203 

if he had been St. Paul ; and what do you think 
he told us ? Why, that if there were no kings, 
no queens, no lords, no ladies, nor gentlemen, nor 
gentlewomen, in the world, 'twould be no loss to 
God Almighty at all. This we had over some 
forty times, which made me remember it whether 
I would or not. The rest was much at this rate, 
interlarded with the prettiest odd phrases, that I 
had the most ado to look soberly enough for the 
place I was in that ever I had in my life. He 
does not preach so always, sure ? If he does, I 
cannot believe his sermons will do much towards 
bringing anybody to heaven more than by ex- 
ercising their patience. Yet, I'll say that for 
him, he stood stoutly for tithes, though, in my 
opinion, few deserve them less than he ; and it 
may be he would be better without them. 

Yet you are not convinced, you say, that to be 
miserable is the way to be good ; to some natures 
I think it is not, but there are many of so care- 
less and vain a temper, that the least breath of 
good fortune swells them with so much pride, 
that if they were not put in mind sometimes by 
a sound cross or two that they are mortal, they 
would hardly think it possible ; and though 'tis a 
sign of a servile nature Avhen fear produces more 
of reverence in us than love, yet there is more 
danger of forgetting oneself in a prosperous for- 
tune than in the contrary, and affliction may be 



S04: Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

the surest (though not the pleasantest) guide to 
heaven. What think you, might not I preach 
with Mr. Marshall for a wager ? But you could 
fancy a perfect happiness here, you say ; that is 
not much, many people do so ; but I never heard 
of anybody that ever had it more than in fancy, 
so that will not be strange if you should miss 
on't. One may be happy to a good degree, I 
think, in a faithful friend, a moderate fortune, 
and a retired life ; further than this I know 
nothing to wish; but if there be anything be- 
yond it, I wish it you. 

You did not tell me what carried you out of 
town in such haste. I hope the occasion was 
good, you must account to me for all that I lost 
by it. I shall expect a whole packet next week. 
Oh, me ! I have forgot this once or twice to tell 
you, that if it be no inconvenience to you, I could 
wish you would change the place of direction for 
my letters. Certainly that Jones knows my 
name, I bespoke a saddle of him once, and though 
it be a good while agone, yet I was so often with 
him about it, — having much ado to make him 
understand how I would have it, it being of a 
fashion he had never seen, though, sure, it be 
common, — that I am confident he has not forgot 
me. Besides that, upon it he got my brother's 
custom ; and I cannot tell whether he does not 
use the shop still. Jane presents her humble 



liife at Chicksands 205 

service to you, and has sent you something in a 
box ; 'tis hard to imagine what she can find here 
to present you withal, and I am much in doubt 
whether you will not pay too dear for it if you 
discharge the carriage. 'Tis a pretty freedom she 
takes, but you may thank yourself ; she thinks 
because you call her fellow-servant, she may use 
you accordingly. I bred her better, but you 
have spoiled her. 

Is it true that my Lord "Whitlocke goes Am- 
bassador where my Lord Lisle should have gone ? 
I know not how he may appear in a Swedish 
Court, but he was never meant for a courtier at 
home, I believe. Yet 'tis a gracious Prince ; he 
is often in this country, and always does us the 
favour to send for his fruit hither. He was mak- 
ing a purchase of one of the best houses in the 
county. I know not whether he goes on with 
it ; but 'tis such a one as will not become any- 
thing less than a lord. And there is a talk as if 
the Chancery were going down ; if so, his title 
goes with it, I think. 'Twill be sad news for my 
Lord Keble's son ; he will have nothing left to 
say when " my Lord, my father," is taken from 
him. Were it not better that I had nothing to 
say neither, than that I should entertain you with 
such senseless things. I hope I am half asleep, 
nothing else can excuse me ; if I were quite 
asleep, I should say fine things to you ; I often 



206 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

dream I do ; but perhaps if I could remember 
them they are no wiser than my wakening dis- 
courses. Good-night. 

Letter 40. — A letter has been lost ; whether 
Harrold or Collins, the two carriers, were either 
or both of them guilty of carelessness in the de- 
livery of these letters, it is quite impossible to 
say now. Dorothy seems to think Harrold de- 
livered the letter, and it was mislaid in London. 
Perhaps it was this letter, and what was written 
about it, that caused all those latent feelings of 
despair and discontent to awaken in the breasts 
of the two lovers. Was this the spark that lone- 
liness and absence fanned into flame ? You shall 
judge for yourself, reader, in the next chapter. 

Sir, — That you may be at more certainty here- 
after what to think, let me tell you that nothing 
could hinder me from writing to you (as well for 
my own satisfaction as yours) but an impossi- 
bility of doing it ; nothing but death or a dead 
palsy in my hands, or something that had the 
same effect. I did write it, and gave it Harrold, 
but by an accident his horse fell lame, so that he 
could not set out on Monday ; but on Tuesday 
he did come to town ; on "Wednesday, carried the 
letter himself (as he tells me) where 'twas di- 
rected, which was to Mr. Copyn in Fleet Street. 
'Twas the first time I made use of that direction ; 
no matter and I had not done it then, since it 
proves no better. Harrold came late home on 



Infe at CJiichsands 207" 

Thursday night with such an account as your 
boy gave you : that coming out of town the same 
day he came in, he had been at Fleet Street 
again, but there was no letter for him, I was 
sorry, but I did not much wonder at it because 
he gave so little time, and resolved to make my 
best of that I had by Collins. I read it over 
often enough to make it equal with the longest 
letter that ever was writ, and pleased myself, in 
earnest (as much as it was possible for me in the 
humour I was in), to think how by that time 
you had asked me pardon for the little reproaches 
you had made me, and that the kindness and 
length of my letter had made you amends for 
the trouble it had given you in expecting it. 
But I am not a little annoyed to find you had it 
not. I am very confident it was delivered, and 
therefore you must search where the fault lies. 

Were it not that you had suffered too much 
already, I would complain a little of you. Why 
should you think me so careless of anything that 
you were concerned in, as to doubt that I had 
writ ? Though I had received none from you, I 
should not have taken that occasion to revenge 
myself. Nay, I should have concluded you inno- 
cent, and have imagined a thousand ways how 
it might happen, rather than have suspected your 
want of kindness. Why should not you be as 
just to me ? But I will not chide, it may be (as 



208 Love Letters fro-in DorotKy Osborne 

long as we have been friends) you do not know 
me so well yet as to make an absolute judgment 
of me ; but if I know myself at all, if I am capa- 
ble of being anything, 'tis a perfect friend. Yet 
I must chide too. "Why did you get such a cold ? 
Good God ! how careless you are of a life that 
(by your own confession) I have told you makes 
all the happiness of mine. 'Tis unkindly done. 
What is left for me to say, when that will not 
prevail with you ; or how can you persuade me 
to a cure of myself, when you refuse to give me 
the example ? I have nothing in the world that 
gives me the least desire of preserving myself, 
but the opinion I have you would not be willing 
to lose me ; and yet, if you saw with what cau- 
tion I live (at least to what I did before), you 
would reproach it to yourself sometimes, and 
might grant, perhaps, that you have not got the 
advantage of me in friendship so much as you 
imagine. What (besides your consideration) 
could oblige me to live and lose all the rest of 
my friends thus one after another ? Sure I am 
not insensible nor very ill-natured, and yet I'll 
swear I think I do not aflSict myself half so much 
as another would do that had my losses. I pay 
nothing of sadness to the memory of my poor 
brother, but I presently disperse it with thinking 
what I owe in thankfulness that 'tis not you I 
mourn for. 



tAfe at Chicicsands SOO 

Well, give me no more occasions to complain 
of you, you know not what may follow. Here 
was Mr. Freeman yesterday that made me a very 
kind visit, and said so many fine things to rae, 
that I was confounded with his civilities, and had 
nothing to say for myself. I could have wished 
then that he had considered me less and my niece 
more ; but if you continue to use me thus, in 
earnest, I'll not be so much her friend hereafter. 
Methinks I see you laugh at all my threatenings ; 
and not without reason. Mr. Freeman, you be- 
lieve, is designed for somebody that deserves him 
better. I think so too, and am not sorry for it ; 
and you have reason to believe I never can be 
other than 

Your faithful friend. 



CHAPTER ly 

DESPONDENCY. CHRISTMAS 1653 

This chapter of letters is a sad note, sounding 
out from among its fellows with mournful clear- 
ness. There had seemed a doubt whether all 
these letters must be regarded as of one series, or 
whether, more correctly, it was to be assumed 
that Dorothy and Temple had their lovers' quar- 
rels, for the well-understood pleasure of kissing 
friends again. But you will agree that these 
lovers were not altogether as other lovers are, 
that their troubles were too real and too many 
for their love to need the stimulus of constant 
April shower quarrels ; and these letters are very 
serious in their sadness, imprinting themselves in 
the mind after constant reading as landmarks 
clearly defining the course and progress of an 
unusual event in these lovers' history — a misun- 
derstanding. 

The letters are written at Christmastide, 1653. 
Dorothy had returned from London to Chicksands, 
and either had not seen Temple or he had left 
London hurriedly whilst she was there. There 
is a letter lost. Dorothy's youngest brother is 
lately dead ; her niece has left her ; her compan- 
ion Jane is sick ; her father, growing daily weaker 
and weaker, was sinking into his grave before her 
eyes, l^o bright chance seemed to open before 

210 



Despondency 211 

her, and their marriage seemed an impossibility. 
For a moment she loses faith, not in Temple, but 
in fortune ; faith once gone, hope, missing her 
comrade, flies away in search of her. She is alone 
in the old house with her dying father, and with 
her brother pouring his unkind gossip into her 
unwilling ear, whilst the sad long year draws 
slowly to its close, and there is no sign of better 
fortune for the lovers ; can we wonder, then, that 
Dorothy, lonely and unaided, pacing in the damp 
garden beneath the bare trees, with all the bright 
summer changed into decay, lost faith and hope ? 

Temple, when Dorothy's thoughts reach him, 
must have replied with some impatience. There 
are stories, too, set about concerning her good 
name by one Mr. B., to disturb Temple. Temple 
can hardly have given credence to these, but he 
may have complained of them to Dorothy, who 
is led to declare, " I am the most unfortunate 
woman breathing, but I was never false," though 
she forgives her lover " all those strange thoughts 
he has had " of her. Whatever were the causes 
of the quarrel, or rather the despondency, we 
shall never know accurately. Dorothy was not 
the woman to vapour for months about " an early 
and a quiet grave." When she writes this it is 
written in the deepest earnest of despair ; when 
this mood is over it is over for ever, and we 
emerge into a clear atmosphere of hope and con- 
tent. The despondency has been agonizing, but 
the agony is sharp and rapid, and gives place to 
the wisdom of hope. 

Temple now comes to Chicksands at an early 
date. There is a new interchange of vows. 



212 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

Never again will their faith be shaken by fretting 
and despair ; and these vows are never broken, 
but remain with the lovers until they are set 
aside by others, taken under the solemn sanction 
of the law, and the old troubles vanish in new 
responsibilities and a new life. 

Letter 41. — Lady Anne Blunt was a daughter 
of the Earl of Newport. Her mother had turned 
Catholic in 1637, which had led to an estrange- 
ment between her and her husband, and w^e may 
conclude poor Lady Anne had by no means a 
happy home. There are two scandals connected 
with her name. She appears to have run away 
with one "William Blunt, — the " Mr. Blunt " men- 
tioned by Dorothy in her next letter; and on 
April 18, 1654, she petitioned the Protector to 
issue a special commission upon her whole case. 
Mr. Blunt pretended that she was contracted to 
him for the sake, it is said, of gaining money 
thereby. There being no Bishop's Court at this 
time, there are legal difficulties in the way, and 
we never hear the result of the petition. Again, 
in February 1655, one Mr. Porter finds himself 
committed to Lambeth House for carrying away 
the Lady Anne Blunt, and endeavouring to marry 
her without her father's consent. 

Sir, — Having tired myself with thinking, I 
mean to weary you with reading, and revenge 
myself that way for all the unquiet thoughts you 
have given me. But I intended this a sober let- 
ter, and therefore, sans raillerie, let me tell you, 
I have seriously considered all our misfortunes,^ 



Despondency 213 

and can see no end of them but by submitting to 
that which we cannot avoid, and by yielding to 
it break the force of a blow which if resisted 
brings a certain ruin. I think I need not tell you 
how dear you have been to me, nor that in your 
kindness I placed all the satisfaction of my life ; 
'twas the only happiness I proposed to myself, 
and had set my heart so much upon it that it was 
therefore made my punishment, to let me see 
that, how innocent soever I thought my affec- 
tion, it was guilty in being greater than is allow- 
able for things of this world. 'Tis not a melan- 
choly humour gives me these apprehensions and 
inclinations, nor the persuasions of others ; 'tis 
the result of a long strife with myself, before my 
reason could overcome my passion, or bring 
me to a perfect resignation to whatsoever is al- 
lotted for me. 'Tis now done, I hope, and I have 
nothing left but to persuade you to that, which I 
assure myself your own judgment will approve 
in the end, and your reason has often prevailed 
with you to offer ; that which you would have 
done then out of kindness to me and point of 
honour, I would have you do now out of wisdom 
and kindness to yourself. Not that I would dis- 
claim my part in it or lessen my obligation to 
you, no, I am your friend as much as ever I was 
in my life, I think more, and I am sure I shall 
never be less. I have known you long enough 



214 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

to discern that you have all the qualities that 
make an excellent friend, and I shall endeavour 
to deserve that you may be so to me ; but I would 
have you do this upon the justest grounds, and 
such as may conduce most to your quiet and 
future satisfaction. When we have tried all ways 
to happiness, there is no such thing to be found 
but in a mind conformed to one's condition, what- 
ever it be, and in not aiming at anything that is 
either impossible or improbable; all the rest is 
but vanity and vexation of spirit, and I durst 
pronounce it so from that little knowledge I have 
had of the world, though I had not Scripture for 
my warrant. The shepherd that bragged to the 
traveller, who asked him, " What weather it was 
like to be?" that it should be what weather 
pleased him, and made it good by saying it should 
be what weather pleased God, and what pleased 
God should please him, said an excellent thing in 
such language, and knew enough to make him the 
happiest person in the world if he made a right 
use on't. There can be no pleasure in a strug- 
gling life, and that folly which we condemn in an 
ambitious man, that's ever labouring for that 
which is hardly got and more uncertainly kept, 
is seen in all according to their several humours ; 
in some 'tis covetousness, in others pride, in some 
stubbornness of nature that chooses always to go 
against the tide, aiid in others an unfortunate 



Despondency 215 

fancy to things that are in themselves innocent 
till we make them otherwise by desiring them 
too much. Of this sort you and I are, I 
think ; we have lived hitherto upon hopes so 
airy that I have often wondered how they 
could support the weight of our misfortunes; 
but passion gives a strength above nature, we 
see it in mad people ; and, not to flatter our- 
selves, ours is but a refined degree of madness. 
What can it be else to be lost to all things in the 
world but that single object that takes up one's 
fancy, to lose all the quiet and repose of one's life 
in hunting after it, when there is so little likeli- 
hood of ever gaining it, and so many more proba- 
ble accidents that Avill infallibly make us miss 
on't ? And which is more than all, 'tis being 
mastered by that which reason and religion 
teaches us to govern, and in that only gives us a 
pre-eminence over beasts. This, soberly consid- 
er'd, is enough to let us see our error, and conse- 
quently to persuade us to redeem it. To another 
person, I should justify myself that 'tis not a 
lightness in my nature, nor any interest that is 
not common to us both, that has wrought this 
change in me. To you that know my heart, and 
from whom I shall never hide it, to whom a 
thousand testimonies of my kindness can witness 
the reality of it, and whose friendship is not built 
upon common grounds, I have no more to say 



216 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

but that I impose not my opinions upon you, and 
that I had rather you took them up as your own 
choice than upon my entreaty. But if, as we 
have not differed in anything else, we could agree 
in this too, and resolve upon a friendship that 
will be much the perfecter for having nothing of 
passion in it, how happy might we be without so 
much as a fear of the change that any accident 
could bring. We might defy all that fortune 
could do, and putting off all disguise and con- 
straint, with that which only made it necessary, 
make our lives as easy to us as the condition of 
this w^orld will permit. I may own you as a per- 
son that I extremely value and esteem, and for 
whom I have a particular friendship, and you 
may consider me as one that will always be 

Your faithful. 

This was written when I expected a letter from 
you, how came I to miss it ? I thought at first 
it might be the carrier's fault in changing his 
time without giving notice, but he assures me he 
did, to Nan. My brother's groom came down 
to-day, too, and saw her, he tells me, but brings 
me nothing from her ; if nothing of ill be the 
cause, I am contented. You hear the noise my 
Lady Anne Blunt has made with her marrying ? 
I am so weary wath meeting it in all places where 
I go ; from what is she fallen ! they talked but 



Despondency 21Y 

the week before that she should have my Lord 
of Strafford. Did you not intend to write to 
me when you writ to Jane ? That bit of paper 
did me great service ; without it I should have 
had strange apprehension, and my sad dreams, 
and the several frights I have waked in, would 
have run so in my head that I should have con- 
cluded something of very ill from your silence. 
Poor Jane is sick, but she will write, she says, if 
she can. Did you send the last part of Cyrus to 
Mr. Hollingsworth ? 

Letter 42. 

Sir, — I am extremely sorry that your letter 
miscarried, but I am confident my brother has it 
not. As cunning as he is, he could not hide from 
me, but that I should discover it some way or 
other. 1^0 ; he was here, and both his men, 
when this letter should have come, and not one 
of them stirred out that day ; indeed, the next 
day they went all to London. The note you writ 
to Jane came in one of Nan's, by Collins, but 
nothing else ; it must be lost by the porter that 
was sent with it, and 'twas very unhappy that 
there should be anything in it of more conse- 
quence than ordinary ; it may be numbered 
amongst the rest of our misfortunes, all which 
an inconsiderate passion has occasioned. You 
must pardon me I cannot be reconciled to it, it 



218 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

has been the ruin of us both. 'Tis true that no- 
body must imagine to themselves ever to be ab- 
solute master on't, but there is great difference 
betwixt that and yielding to it, between striving 
with it and soothing it up till it grows too 
strong for one. Can I remember how ignorantly 
and innocently I suffered it to steal upon me by 
degrees ; how under a mask of friendship I 
cozened myself into that which, had it appeared 
to me at first in its true shape, I had feared and 
shunned ? Can I discern that it has made the 
trouble of your life, and cast a cloud upon mine, 
that will help to cover me in my grave ? Can I 
know that it wrought so upon us both as to 
make neither of us friends to one another, but 
agree in running wildly to our own destruction, 
and that perhaps of some innocent persons who 
might live to curse our folly that gave them so 
miserable a being ? Ah ! if you love yourself or 
me, you must confess that I have reason to con- 
demn this senseless passion ; that wheresoe'er it 
comes destroys all that entertain it ; nothing of 
judgment or discretion can live with it, and it 
puts everything else out of order before it can 
find a place for itself. What has it brought my 
poor Lady Anne Blunt to ? She is the talk of 
all the footmen and boys in the street, and will 
be company for them shortly, and yet is so 
blinded by her passion as not at all to perceive 



Despondency 219 

the misery she has brought herself to ; and this 
fond love of hers has so rooted all sense of nature 
out of her heart, that, they say, she is no more 
moved than a statue with the affliction of a father 
and mother that doted on her, and had placed 
the comfort of their lives in her preferment. 
With all this is it not manifest to the whole world 
that Mr, Blunt could not consider anything in 
this action but his own interest, and that he 
makes her a very ill return for all her kindness ; 
if he had loved her truly he would have died 
rather than have been the occasion of this mis- 
fortune to her. My cousin Franklin (as you ob- 
serve very well) may say fine things now she is 
warm in Moor Park, but she is very much 
altered in her opinions since her marriage, if 
these be her o^vn. She left a gentleman, that I 
could name, whom she had much more of kind- 
ness for than ever she had for Mr. Franklin, be- 
cause his estate was less ; and upon the discovery 
of some letters that her mother intercepted, 
suffered herself to be persuaded that twenty- 
three hundred pound a year was better than 
twelve hundred, though with a person she loved ; 
and has recovered it so well, that you see she 
confesses there is nothing in her condition she 
desires to alter at the charge of a wish. She's 
happier by much than I shall ever be, but I do 
not envy her ; may she long enjoy it, and I an 



220 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

early and a quiet grave, free from the trouble of 
this busy world, where all with passion pursue 
their own interests at their neighbour's charges ; 
where nobody is pleased but somebody complains 
on't ; and where 'tis impossible to be without 
giving and receiving injuries. 

You would know what I would be at, and how 
I intend to dispose of myself. Alas ! were I in 
my own disposal, you should come to my grave 
to be resolved ; but grief alone will not kill. All 
that I can say, then, is that I resolve on nothing 
but to arm myself with patience, to resist noth- 
ing that is laid upon me, nor struggle for what I 
have no hope to get. I have no ends nor no de- 
signs, nor will my heart ever be capable of any ; 
but like a country wasted by a civil war, where 
two opposing parties have disputed their right so 
long till they have made it worth neither of their 
conquests, 'tis ruined and desolated by the long 
strife within it to that degree as 'twill be useful 
to none, — nobody that knows the condition 'tis 
in will think it worth the gaining, and I shall not 
trouble anybody with it. No, really, if I may be 
permitted to desire anything, it shall be only that 
I may injure nobody but myself, — I can bear 
anything that reflects only upon me ; or, if I 
cannot, I can die ; but I would fain die innocent, 
that I might hope to be happy in the next world, 
though never in this. I take it a little ill that 



Despondency 221 

you should conjure me by anything, with a be- 
lief that 'tis more powerful with me than your 
kindness. No, assure yourself what that alone 
cannot gain will be denied to all the world. You 
would see me, you say ? You may do so if you 
please, though I know not to what end. You 
deceive yourself if you think it would prevail 
upon me to alter my intentions ; besides, I can 
make no contrivances ; it must be here, and I 
must endure the noise it will make, and undergo 
the censures of a people that choose ever to give 
the worst interpretation that anything will bear. 
Yet if it can be any ease to you to make me 
more miserable than I am, never spare me ; con- 
sider yourself only, and not me at all, — 'tis no 
more than I deserve for not accepting what you 
offered me whilst 'twas in your power to make 
it good, as you say it then was. You were pre- 
pared, it seems, but I was surprised, I confess. 
'Twas a kind fault though ; and you may pardon 
it with more reason than I have to forgive it my- 
self. And let me tell you this, too, as lost and 
as wretched as I am, I have still some sense of 
my reputation left in me, — I find that to my 
cost, — I shall attempt to preserve it as clear as I 
can ; and to do that, I must, if you see me thus, 
make it the last of our interviews. What can 
excuse me if I should entertain any person that 
is known to pretend to me, when I can have no 



222 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

hope of ever marr^dng him ? And what hope 
can I have of that when the fortune that can 
only make it possible to me depends upon a thou- 
sand accidents and contingencies, the uncertainty 
of the place 'tis in, and the government it may 
fall under, your father's life or his success, his 
disposal of himself and of his fortune, besides the 
time that must necessarily be required to produce 
all this, and the changes that may probably bring 
with it, which 'tis impossible for us to foresee ? 
All this considered, what have I to say for myself 
when people shall ask, what 'tis I expect ? Can 
there be an3^thing vainer than such a hope upon 
Buch grounds ? You must needs see the folly on't 
yourself, and therefore examine your own heart 
what 'tis fit for me to do, and what you can do for 
a person you love, and that deserves your compas- 
sion if nothing else, — a person that will always 
have an inviolable friendship for you, a friendship 
that shall take up all the room my passion held in 
my heart, and govern there as master, till death 
come and take possession and turn it out. 

Why should you make an impossibility where 
there is none? A thousand accidents might 
have taken me from you, and you must have 
borne it. Why would not your own resolution 
work as much upon you as necessity and time 
does infallibly upon people ? Your father would 
take it very ill, I believe, if you should pretend 



Despondency 223 

to love me better than he did my Lady, yet she 
is dead and he lives, and perhaps may do to love 
again. There is a gentlewoman in this country 
that loved so passionately for six or seven years 
that her friends, who kept her from marrying, 
fearing her death, consented to it ; and within 
half a year her husband died, which afflicted her 
so strongly nobody thought she would have 
lived. She saw no light but candles in three 
years, nor came abroad in five ; and now that 
'tis some nine years past, she is passionately taken 
again with another, and how long she has been so 
nobody knows but herself. This is to let you see 
'tis not impossible what I ask, nor unreasonable. 
Think on't, and attempt it at least ; but do it 
sincerely, and do not help your passion to master 
you. As you have ever loved me do this. 

The carrier shall bring your letters to Suffolk 
House to Jones. I shall long to hear from you ; 
but if you should deny the only hope that's left 
me, I must beg you will defer it till Christmas 
Day be past ; for, to deal freely with you, I have 
some devotions to perform then, which must not 
be disturbed with anything, and nothing is like 
to do it as so sensible an affliction. Adieu. 

Letter 43. 

Sir, — I can say little more than I did, — I am 
convinced of the vileness of the world and all 



224 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

that's in it, and that I deceived myself extremely 
when I expected anything of comfort from it. 
No, I have no more to do in't but to grow every 
day more and more weary of it, if it be possible 
that I have not yet reached the highest degree of 
hatred for it. But I thank God I hate nothing 
else but the base world, and the vices that make 
a part of it. I am in perfect charity with my 
enemies, and have compassion for all people's 
misfortunes as well as for my own, especially for 
those I may have caused ; and I may truly say I 
bear my share of such. But as nothing obliges 
me to relieve a person that is in extreme want 
till I change conditions with him and come to be 
where he began, and that I may be thought com- 
passionate if I do all that I can without prejudic- 
ing myself too much, so let me tell you, that if I 
could help it, I would not love you, and that as 
long as I live I shall strive against it as against 
that which had been my ruin, and was certainly 
sent me as a punishment for my sin. But I 
shall always have a sense of your misfortunes, 
equal, if not above, my own. I shall pray that 
you may obtain a quiet I never hope for but in 
my grave, and I shall never change my condition 
but with my life. Yet let not this give you a 
hope. Nothing ever can persuade me to enter 
the world again. I shall, in a short time, have 
disengaged myself of all my little affairs in it, 



Despondency 225 

and settled myself in a condition to apprehend 
nothing but too long a life, therefore I wish you 
would forget me ; and to induce you to it, let me 
tell you freely that I deserve you should. If I 
remember anybody, 'tis against my will. I am 
possessed with that strange insensibility that my 
nearest relations have no tie upon me, and I find 
myself no more concerned in those that I have 
heretofore had great tenderness of affection for, 
than in my kindred that died long before I was 
born. Leave me to this, and seek a better for- 
tune. I beg it of you as heartily as I forgive 
you all those strange thoughts you have had of 
me. Think me so still if that will do anything 
towards it. For God's sake do take any course 
that may make you happy ; or, if that cannot be, 
less unfortunate at least than 

Your friend and humble servant, 

D. Osborne. 

I can hear nothing of that letter, but I hear 
from all people that I know, part of my unhappy 
story, and from some that I do not know. A 
lady, whose face I never saw, sent it me as news 
she had out of Ireland. 

Letter 44. 

Sir, — If you have ever loved me, do not refuse 
the last request I shall ever make you; 'tis to 



226 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

preserve yourself from the violence of your pas- 
sion. Vent it all upon me ; call me and think 
me what you please ; make me, if it be possible, 
more wretched than I am. I'll bear it all with- 
out the least murmur. Nay, I deserve it all, for 
had you never seen me you had certainly been 
happy. 'Tis my misfortunes only that have that 
infectious quality as to strike at the same time 
me and all that's dear to me. I am the most un- 
fortunate woman breathing, but I was never 
false. No ; I call heaven to witness that if my 
life could satisfy for the least injury my fortune 
has done you (I cannot say 'twas I that did them 
you), I would lay it down with greater joy than 
any person ever received a crown ; and if I ever 
forget what I owe you, or ever entertained a 
thought of kindness for any person in the world 
besides, may I live a long and miserable life. 
'Tis the greatest curse I can invent ; if there be 
a greater, may I feel it. This is all I can say. 
Tell me if it be possible I can do anything for 
you, and tell me how I may deserve your pardon 
for all the trouble I have given you. I would 
not die without it. 

[Directed.] For Mr. Temple. 

Letter 45. 

SiE, — 'Tis most true what you say, that few 
have what they merit ; if it were otherwise, you 



Desjyondency 227 

would be happy, I think, but then I should be so 
too, and that must not be, — a false and an incon- 
stant person cannot merit it, I am sure. You 
are kind in your good wishes, but I aim at no 
friends nor no princes, the honour would be 
lost upon me ; I should become a crown so ill, 
there would be no striving for it after me, and, 
sure, I should not wear it long. Your letter was 
a much greater loss to me than that of Henry 
Cromwell, and, therefore, 'tis that with all my 
care and diligence I cannot inquire it out. You 
will not complain, I believe, of the shortness of 
my last, whatever else you dislike in it, and if I 
spare you at any time 'tis because I cannot but 
imagine, since I am so wearisome to myself, 
that I must needs be so to everybody else, 
though, at present, I have other occasions that 
will not permit this to be a long one. I am sorry 
it should be only in my power to make a friend 
miserable, and that where I have so great a kind- 
ness I should do so great injuries ; but 'tis my 
fortune, and I must bear it ; 'twill be none to you, 
I hope, to pray for you, nor to desire that you 
would (all passion laid aside) freely tell me my 
faults, that I may, at least, ask your forgiveness 
where 'tis not in my power to make you better 
satisfaction. I would fain make even with all 
the world, and be out of danger of dying in any- 
body's debt ; then I have nothing more to do in 



228 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

it but to expect when I shall be so happy as to 
leave it, and always to remember that my mis- 
fortune makes all my faults towards you, and 
that my faults to God make all my misfortunes. 

Your unhappy. 

Letter 46. 

Sir, — That which I writ by your boy was in 
so much haste and distraction as I cannot be 
satisfied with it, nor believe it has expressed my 
thoughts as I meant them. No, I find it is not 
easily done at more leisure, and I am yet to seek 
what to say that is not too little nor too much. 
I would fain let you see that I am extremely sen- 
sible of your affliction, that I would lay down my 
life to redeem you from it, but that's a mean ex- 
pression ; my life is of so little value that I will 
not mention it. No, let it be rather what, in 
earnest, if I can tell anything I have left that is 
considerable enough to expose for it, it must be 
that small reputation I have amongst my friends, 
that's all my wealth, and that I could part with 
to restore you to that quiet you lived in when I 
first knew you. But, on the other side, I would 
not give you hopes of that I cannot do. If I 
loved you less I would allow you to be the same 
person to me, and I would be the same to you 
as heretofore. But to deal freely with you, that 
were to betray myself, and I find that my pas- 



Desjpondency 229 

sion would quickly be my master again if I gave it 
any liberty. I am not secure that it would not 
make me do the most extravagant things in the 
world, and I shall be forced to keep a continual 
war alive with it as long as there are any re- 
mainders of it left ; — I think I might as well 
have said as long as I lived, "Why should you 
give yourself over so unreasonably to it ? Good 
God ! no woman breathing can deserve half the 
trouble you give yourself. If I were yours from 
this minute I could not recompense what you 
have suffered from the violence of your passion, 
though I were all that you can imagine me, when, 
God knows, I am an inconsiderable person, born 
to a thousand misfortunes, which have taken 
away all sense of anything else from me, and left 
me a walking misery only. I do from my soul 
forgive you all the injuries your passion has done 
me, though, let me tell you, I was much more at 
my ease whilst I was angry. Scorn and despite 
would have cured me in some reasonable time, 
which I despair of now. However, I am not dis- 
pleased with it, and, if it may be of any advan- 
tage to you, I shall not consider myself in it ; but 
let me beg, then, that you will leave off those 
dismal thoughts. I tremble at the desperate 
things you say in your letter ; for the love of 
God, consider seriously with yourself what can 
enter into comparison with the safety of your 



230 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

soul. Are a thousand women, or ten thousand 
worlds, worth it ? No, you cannot have so little 
reason left as you pretend, nor so little religion. 
For God's sake let us not neglect what can only 
make us happy for trifles. If God had seen it 
fit to have satisfied our desires we should have 
had them, and everything would not have con- 
spired thus to have crossed them. Since He has 
decreed it otherwise (at least as far as we are 
able to judge by events), we must submit, and 
not by striving make an innocent passion a sin, 
and show a childish stubbornness. 

I could say a thousand things more to this pur- 
pose if I were not in haste to send this away, — 
that it may come to you, at least, as soon as the 
other. Adieu. 

I cannot imagine who this should be that Mr. 
Dr. meant, and am inclined to believe 'twas a 
story meant to disturb you, though perhaps not 
by him. 

Letter 47. 

Sir, — 'Tis never my humour to do injuries, nor 
was this meant as any to you. No, in earnest, if 
I could have persuaded you to have quitted a 
passion that injures you, I had done an act of 
real friendship, and you might have lived to 
thank me for it ; but since it cannot be, I will at- 
tempt it no more. I have laid before you the 



Despondency 231 

inconveniences it brings along, how certain the 
trouble is, and how uncertain the reward ; how 
many accidents may hinder us from ever being 
happy, and how few there are (and those so un- 
likely) to make up our desire. All this makes no 
impression on you ; you are still resolved to fol- 
low your blind guide, and I to pity where I can- 
not help. It will not be amiss though to let you 
see that what I did was merely in consideration 
of your interest, and not at all of my own, that 
you may judge of me accordingly ; and, to do 
that, I must tell you that, unless it were after the 
receipt of those letters that made me angry, I 
never had the least hope of wearing out my pas- 
sion, nor, to say truth, much desire. For to what 
purpose should I have strived against it ? 'Twas 
innocent enough in me that resolved never to 
marry, and would have kept me company in this 
solitary place as long as I lived, without being a 
trouble to myself or anybody else. Nay, in ear- 
nest, if I could have hoped you would be so much 
your own friend as to seek out a happiness in 
some other person, nothing under heaven could 
have satisfied me like entertaining myself with 
the thought of having done you service in divert- 
ing you from a troublesome pursuit of what is so 
uncertain, and by that giving you the occasion of 
a better fortune. Otherwise, whether you loved 
me still, or whether you did not, was equally the 



232 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

same to me, your interest set aside. I will not 
reproach you how ill an interpretation you made 
of this, because we will have no more quarrels. 
On the contrary, because I see 'tis in vain to 
think of curing you, I'll study only to give you 
what ease I can, and leave the rest to better 
physicians, — to time and fortune. Here, then, I 
declare that you have still the same power in my 
heart that I gave you at our last parting ; that I 
will never marry any other ; and that if ever our 
fortunes will allow us to marry, you shall dispose 
of me as you please ; but this, to deal freely with 
you, I do not hope for. No ; 'tis too great a 
happiness, and I, that know myself best, must 
acknowledge I deserve crosses and afflictions, but 
can never merit such a blessing. You know 'tis 
not a fear of want that frights me. I thank God 
I never distrusted His providence, nor I hope 
never shall, and without attributing anything to 
myself, I may acknowledge He has given me a 
mind that can be satisfied with as narrow a com- 
pass as that of any person living of my rank. 
But I confess that I have an humour will not 
suffer me to expose myself to people's scorn. 
The name of love is grown so contemptible by 
the folly of such as have falsely pretended to it, 
and so many giddy people have married upon 
that score and repented so shamefully after- 
wards, that nobody can do anything that tends 



Despondency 233 

towards it without being esteemed a ridiculous 
person. Now, as my young Lady Holland says, 
I never pretended to wit in my life, but I cannot 
be satisfied that the world should think me a 
fool, so that all I can do for you will be to pre- 
serve a constant kindness for you, which nothing 
shall ever alter or diminish ; I'll never give you 
any more alarms, by going about to persuade 
you against that you have for me ; but from this 
hour we'll live quietly, no more fears, no more 
jealousies ; the wealth of the whole world, by the 
grace of God, shall not tempt me to break my 
word with you, nor the importunity of all my 
friends I have. Keep this as a testimony 
against me if ever I do, and make me a reproach 
to them by it ; therefore be secure, and rest sat- 
isfied with what I can do for you. 

You should come hither but that I expect my 
brother every day ; not but that he designed a 
longer stay when he went, but since he keeps his 
horses with him 'tis an infallible token that he is 
coming. We cannot miss fitter times than this 
twenty in a year, and I shall be as ready to give 
you notice of such as you can be to desire it, only 
you would do me a great pleasure if you could 
forbear writing, unless it were sometimes on 
great occasions. This is a strange request for 
me to make, that have been fonder of your let- 
ters than my Lady Protector is of her ne^y 



234 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

honour, and, in earnest, would be so still but 
there are a thousand inconveniences in't that I 
could tell you. Tell me what you can do ; in the 
meantime think of some employment for your- 
self this summer. "Who knows what a year may 
produce? If nothing, we are but where we 
were, and nothing can hinder us from being, at 
least, perfect friends. Adieu. There's nothing 
so terrible in my other letter but you may ven- 
ture to read it. Have not you forgot my Lady's 
book? 



CHAPTER Y 

THE LAST OF CHICKSANDS. FEBRUAKY AND 
MARCH 1654 

The quarrel is over, happily over, and Dorothy 
and Temple are more than reconciled again. 
Temple has been down to Chicksands to see her, 
and some more definite arrangement has been 
come to between them. Dorothy has urged 
Temple to go to Ireland and join his father, who 
has once again taken possession of his office of 
Master of the Rolls. As soon as an appointment 
can be found for Temple they are to be married 
— that is, as far as one can gather, the state of 
affairs between them ; but it would seem as if 
nothing of this was as yet to be known to the 
outer world, not even to Dorothy's brother. 

Letter 48. 
Sir, — 'Tis but an hour since you went, and I 
am writing to you already ; is not this kind ? 
How do you after your journey ; are you not 
weary ; do you not repent that you took it to so 
little purpose ? Well, God forgive me, and you 
too, you made me tell a great lie. I was fain to 
say you came only to take your leave before you 
went abroad ; and all this not only to keep quiet, 
but to keep him from playing the madman ; for 
235' 



236 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

when he has the least suspicion, he carries it so 
strangely that all the world takes notice on't, 
and so often guess at the reason, or else he tells 
it. Now, do but you judge whether if by mis- 
chance he should discover the truth, whether he 
would not rail most sweetly at me (and with 
some reason) for abusing him. Yet you helped 
to do it ; a sadness that he discovered at your 
going away inclined him to believe you were ill 
satisfied, and made him credit what I said. He 
is kind now in extremity, and I would be glad to 
keep him so till a discovery is absolutely neces- 
sary. Your going abroad will confirm him much 
in his belief, and I shall have nothing to torment 
me in this place but my own doubts and fears. 
Here I shall find all the repose I am capable of, 
and nothing will disturb my prayers and wishes 
for your happiness which only can make mine. 
Your journey cannot be to your disadvantage 
neither ; you must needs be pleased to visit a 
place you are so much concerned in, and to be a 
witness yourself of your hopes, though I will be- 
lieve you need no other inducements to this voy- 
age than my desiring it. I know you love me, 
and you have no reason to doubt my kindness. 
Let us both have patience to wait what time and 
fortune will do for us ; they cannot hinder our 
being perfect friends. 

Lord, there were a thousand things I remem- 



The Last of Chicksands 237 

bered after you were gone that I should have 
said, and now I am to write not one of them will 
come into my head. Sure as I live it is not set- 
tled yet ! Good God ! the fears and surprises, 
the crosses and disorders of that day, 'twas con- 
fused enough to be a dream, and I am apt to 
think sometimes it was no more. But no, I saw 
you ; when I shall do it again, God only knows ! 
Can there be a romancer story than ours would 
make if the conclusion prove happy ? Ah ! I 
dare not hope it ; something that I cannot de- 
scribe draws a cloud over all the light my fancy 
discovers sometimes, and leaves me so in the dark 
with all my fears about me that I tremble to 
think on't. But no more of this sad talk. 

Who was that, Mr. Dr. told you I should 
marry ? I cannot imagine for my life ; tell me, 
or I shall think you made it to excuse yourself. 
Did not you say once you knew where good 
French tweezers were to be had ? Pray send me 
a pair ; they shall cut no love. Before you go I 
must have a ring from you, too, a plain gold one ; 
if I ever marry it shall be my wedding ring ; 
when I die I'll give it you again. What a dismal 
story this is you sent me ; but who could expect 
better from a love begun upon such grounds ? I 
cannot pity neither of them, they were both so 
guilty. Yes, they are the more to be pitied for 
that. 



238 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

Here is a note comes to me just now, will you 
do this service for a fine lady that is my friend ; 
have not I taught her well, she writes better 
than her mistress ? How merry and pleased she 
is with her marrying because there is a plentiful 
fortune ; otherwise she would not value the man 
at all. This is the world ; would you and I were 
out of it : for, sure, we were not made to live in 
it. Do you remember Arme and the little house 
there ? Shall we go thither ? that's next to be- 
ing out of the world. There we might live like 
Baucis and Philemon, grow old together in our 
little cottage, and for our charity to some ship- 
wrecked strangers obtain the blessing of dying 
both at the same time. How idly I talk ; 'tis 
because the story pleases me — none in Ovid so 
much. I remember I cried when I read it. Me- 
thought they were the perfectest characters of a 
contented marriage, where piety and love were 
all their wealth, and in their poverty feasted the 
gods when rich men shut them out. I am called 
away, — farewell ! 

Your faithful. 



Letter 49. — The beginning of this letter is lost, 
and with it, perhaps, the name of Dorothy's lover 
who had written some verses on her beauty. 
However, we have the "tag" of them, with 
which we must rest content. 



The Last of Chicksands ^39 

. . . 'Tis pity I cannot show you what his 
wit could do upon so ill a subject, but my Lady 
Kuthin keeps them to abuse me withal, and has 
put a tune to them that I may hear them all 
manner of ways ; and yet I do protest I 
remember nothing more of them than this lame 
piece, — 

A stately and majestic brow, 
Of force to make Protectors bow. 

Indeed, if I have any stately looks I think he has 
seen them, but yet it seems they could not keep 
him from playing the fool. My Lady Grey told 
me that one day talking of me to her (as he 
would find ways to bring in that discourse by the 
head and shoulders, whatsoever anybody else 
could interpose), he said he wondered I did not 
marry. She (that understood him well enough, 
but would not seem to do so) said she knew not, 
unless it were that I liked my present condition 
so well that I did not care to change it ; which 
she was apt to believe, because to her knowledge 
I had refused very good fortunes, and named 
some so far beyond his reach, that she thought 
she had dashed all his hopes. But he, confident 
still, said 'twas perhaps that I had no fancy to 
their persons (as if his own were so taking), that 
I was to be looked upon as one that had it in my 
power to please myself, and that perhaps in a 



240 Love Letters from i)orothy Osborne 

person I liked would bate something of fortune. 
To this my Lady answered again for me, that 
'twas not impossible but I might do so, but in 
that point she thought me nice and curious 
enough. And still to dishearten him the more, 
she took occasion (upon his naming some gentle- 
men of the county that had been talked of here- 
tofore as of my servants, and are since disposed 
of) to say (very plainly) that 'twas true they had 
some of them pretended, but there was an end of 
my Bedfordshire servants she was sure there 
were no more that could be admitted into the 
number. After all this (which would have satis- 
fied an ordinary young man) did I this last 
Thursday receive a letter from him by Collins, 
which he sent first to London that it might come 
thence to me. I threw it into the fire ; and do 
you but keep my counsel, nobody shall ever know 
that I had it ; and my gentleman shall be kept 
at such a distance as I hope to hear no more of 
him. Yet I'll swear of late I have used him so 
near to rudely that there is little left for me to 
do. Fye! what a deal of paper I have spent 
upon this idle fellow ; if I had thought his story 
would have proved so long you should have 
missed on't, and the loss would not have been 
great. 

I have not thanked you yet for my tweezers 
and essences ; they are both very good. I kept 



The Last of Chictcsands 241 

one of the little glasses myself ; remember my 
ring, and in return, if I go to London whilst you 
are in Ireland, I'll have my picture taken in little 
and send it you. The sooner you despatch away 
will be the better, I think, since I have no hopes 
of seeing you before you go ; there lies all your 
business, your father and fortune must do all the 
rest. I cannot be more yours than I am. You 
are mistaken if you think I stand in awe of my 
brother. No, I fear nobody's anger. I am proof 
against all violence ; but when people haunt me 
with reasoning and entreaties, when they look 
sadly and pretend kindness, when they beg upon 
that score, 'tis a strange pain to me to deny. 
"When he rants and renounces me, I can despise 
him ; but when he asks my pardon, with tears 
pleads to me the long and constant friendship be- 
tween us, and calls heaven to witness that noth- 
ing upon earth is dear to him in comparison of me, 
then, I confess, I feel a stronger unquietness 
within me, and I would do anything to evade his 
importunity. Nothing is so great a violence to 
me as that which moves my compassion. I can 
resist with ease any sort of people but beggars. 
If this be a fault in me, 'tis at least a well-natured 
one ; and therefore I hope you will forgive it 
me, you that can forgive me anything, you say, 
and be displeased with nothing whilst I love 
you ; may I never be pleased with anything when 



242 Love Letter's from Dorothy Osborne 

I do not. Yet I could beat you for writing this 
last strange letter ; was there ever anything said 
like? If I had but a vanity that the world 
should admire me, I would not care what they 
talked of me. In earnest, I believe there is 
nobody displeased that people speak well of them, 
and reputation is esteemed by all of much greater 
value than life itself. Yet let me tell you soberly, 
that with all my vanity I could be very well 
contented nobody should blame me or any action 
of mine, to quit all my part of the praises and 
admiration of the world ; and if I might be 
allowed to choose, my happiest part of it should 
consist in concealment, there should not be above 
two persons in the world know that there was 
such a one in it as your faithful. 

Stay ! I have not done yet. Here's another 
good side, I find ; here, then, I'll tell you that I 
am not angry for all this. No, I allow it to 
your ill-humour, and that to the crosses that have 
been common to us ; but now that is cleared up, 
I should expect you should say finer things to me. 
Yet take heed of being like my neighbour's 
servant, he is so transported to find no rubs in 
his way that he knows not whether he stands on 
his head or his feet. 'Tis the most troublesome, 
busy talking little thing that ever was born ; his 
tongue goes like the clack of a mill, but to much 
less purpose, though if it were all oracle, my 



The Last of ChicTcsands 243 

head would ache to hear that perpetual noise. I 
admire at her patience and her resolution that can 
laugh at his fooleries and love his fortune. You 
would wonder to see how tired she is with his 
impertinences, and yet how pleased to think she 
shall have a great estate with him. But this is 
the world, and she makes a part of it betimes. 
Two or three great glistening jewels have bribed 
her to wink at all his faults, and she hears him 
as unmoved and unconcerned as if another were 
to marry him. 

What think you, have I not done fair for once, 
would you wish a longer letter ? See how kind 
I grow at parting ; who would not go into 
Ireland to have such another ? In earnest now, 
go as soon as you can, 'twill be the better, I 
think, who am your faithful friend. 

Letter 50. — Wrest, in Bedfordshire, where 
Dorothy met her importunate lover, was the 
seat of Anthony Grey, Earl of Kent. There is 
said to be a picture there of Sir William Temple, 
— a copy of Lely's picture. Wrest Park is only 
a few miles from Chicksands. 

Sir, — Who would be kind to one that re- 
proaches one so cruelly ? Do you think, in 
earnest, I could be satisfied the world should 
think me a dissembler, full of avarice or ambi- 
tion ? Ko, you are mistaken ; but I'll tell you 



2-44 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

what I could suffer, that they should say I mar- 
ried where I had no inclination, because my 
friends thought it fit, rather than that I had run 
wilfully to my own ruin in pursuit of a fond pas- 
sion of my own. To marry for love were no re- 
proachful thing if we did not see that of the 
thousand couples that do it, hardly one can be 
brought for an example that it may be done and 
not repented afterwards. Is there anything 
thought so indiscreet, or that makes one more 
contemptible ? 'Tis true that I do firmly believe 
we should be, as you say, toujours les mesmes ; 
but if (as you confess) 'tis that which hardly 
happens once in two ages, we are not to expect 
the world should discern we were not like the 
rest. I'll tell you stories another time, you re- 
turn them so handsomely upon me. "Well, the 
next servant I tell you of shall not be called a 
whelp, if 'twere not to give you a stick to beat 
myself with. I would confess that I looked 
upon the impudence of this fellow as a punish- 
ment upon me for my over care in avoiding the 
talk of the Avorld ; yet the case is very different, 
and no woman shall ever be blamed that an in- 
consolable person pretends to her when she gives 
no allowance to it, whereas none shall 'scape that 
owns a passion, though in return of a person 
much above her. The little tailor that loved 
Queen ^Elizabeth was suffered to talk put, and 



The Last of ChicJcsands 245 

none of her Council thought it necessary to stop 
his mouth ; but the Queen of Sweden's kind letter 
to the King of Scots was intercepted by her own 
ambassador, because he thought it was not for 
his mistress's honour (at least that was his pre- 
tended reason), and thought justifiable enough. 
But to come to my Beagle again. I have heard 
no more of him, though I have seen him since ; 
we met at "Wrest again. I do not doubt but I 
shall be better able to resist his importunity than 
his tutor was ; but what do you think it is that 
gives him his encouragement? He was told I 
had thought of marrying a gentleman that had 
not above two hundred pound a year, only out 
of my liking to his person. And upon that score 
his vanity allows him to think he may pretend 
as far as another. Thus you see 'tis not alto- 
gether without reason that I apprehend the noise 
of the world, since 'tis so much to my disad- 
vantage. 

Is it in earnest that you say your being there 
keeps me from the town ? If so, 'tis very unkind. 
No, if I had gone, it had been to have waited on 
my neighbour, who has now altered her resolu- 
tion and goes not herself. I have no business 
there, and am so little taken with the place that 
I could sit here seven years without so much as 
thinking once of going to it. 'Tis not likely, as 
you say, that you should much persuade your 



246 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

father to what you do not desire he should do ; 
but it is hard if all the testimonies of my kind- 
ness are not enough to satisfy without my pub- 
lishing to the world that I can forget my friends 
and all my interest to follow my passion ; though, 
perhaps, it will admit of a good sense, 'tis that 
which nobody but you or I will give it, and we 
that are concerned in't can only say 'twas an act 
of great kindness and something romance, but 
must confess it had nothing of prudence, discre- 
tion, nor sober counsel in't. 'Tis not that I ex- 
pect, by all your father's ofifers, to bring my 
friends to approve it. I don't deceive myself 
thus far, but I would not give them occasion to 
say that I hid myself from them in the doing it ; 
nor of making my action appear more indiscreet 
than it is. It will concern me that all the world 
should know what fortune you have, and upon 
what terms I marry you, that both may not be 
made to appear ten times worse than they are. 
'Tis the general custom of all people to make 
those that are rich to have more mines of gold 
than are in the Indies, and such as have small 
fortunes to be beggars. If an action take a little 
in the world, it shall be magnified and brought 
into comparison with what the heroes or senators 
of Eome performed ; but, on the contrary, if it 
be once condemned, nothing can be found ill 
enough to compare it with; and people are in. 



The Last of Chichsands 247 

pain till they find out some extravagant expres- 
sion, to represent the folly on't. Only there is 
this difference, that as all are more forcibly in- 
clined to ill than good, they are much apter to 
exceed in detraction than in praises. Have I not 
reason then to desire this from you; and may 
not my friendship have deserved it? I know 
not ; 'tis as you think ; but if I be denied it, you 
will teach me to consider myself. 'Tis well the 
side ended here. If I had not had occasion to 
stop there, I might have gone too far, and 
showed that I had more passions than one. Yet 
'tis fit you should know all my faults, lest you 
should repent your bargain when 'twill not be in 
your power to release yourself ; besides, I may 
own my ill-humour to you that cause it ; 'tis the 
discontent my crosses in this business have given 
me makes me thus peevish. Though I say it 
myself, before I knew you I was thought as well 
an humoured young person as most in England ; 
nothing displeased, nothing troubled me. When 
I came out of France, nobody knew me again. 
I was so altered, from a cheerful humour that 
was always alike, never over merry but always 
pleased, I was grown heavy and sullen, froward 
and discomposed ; and that country which usually 
gives people a joUiness and gaiety that is natural 
to the climate, had wrought in me so contrary 
effects that I was as new a thing to them as my 



248 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

clothes. If you find all this to be sad truth here- 
after, remember that I gave you fair warning. 

Here is a ring : it must not be at all wider 
than this, which is rather too big for me than 
otherwise ; but that is a good fault, and counted 
lucky by superstitious people. I am not so, 
though: 'tis indifferent whether there be any 
word in't or not ; only 'tis as well without, and 
will make my wearing it the less observed. You 
must give Nan leave to cut a lock of your hair 
for me, too. Oh, my heart ! what a sigh was 
there ! I will not tell you how many this journey 
causes ; nor the fear and apprehensions I have 
for you. No, I long to be rid of you, am afraid 
you will not go soon enough : do not you believe 
this? No, my dearest, I know you do not, 
whate'er you say, you cannot doubt that I am 
yours. 

Letter 51. — Lady Newport was the wife of the 
Earl of Newport, and mother of Lady Anne 
Blunt of whom we heard something in former 
letters. She is mentioned as a prominent leader 
of London society. In March 1652 she is granted 
a pass to leave the country, on condition that she 
gives security to do nothing prejudicial to the 
State; from which we may draw the inference 
that she was a political notability. 

My Lady Devonshire was Christian, daughter 
of Lord Bruce of Kinloss. She married William 
Cavendish, second Earl of Devonshire. Her 



The Last of ChicTcsands 249 

daughter Anne married Lord Rich, and died sud- 
denly in 1638. Pomfret, Godolphin, and Falk- 
land celebrated her virtues in verse, and Waller 
wrote her funeral hymn, which is still known to 
some of us, — 

The Lady Rich is dead. 
Heartrending news ! and dreadful to those few 
Who her resemble and her steps pursue, 
That Death should License have to range among 
The fair, the wise, the virtuous, and the young. 

It was the only son of Lady Rich who married 
Frances Cromwell. 

Lord Warwick was the father of Robert, Lord 
Rich, and we may gather from this letter that, 
at Lady Devonshire's instigation, he had inter- 
fered in a proposed second marriage between his 
son and some fair unknown. 

Parthenissa is only just out. It is the latest 
thing in literary circles. We find it advertised 
in Mei'curius I'oliticus, 19th January 1654: — 
^''Parthenissa^ that most famous romance, com- 
posed by the Lord Broghill, and dedicated to the 
Lady Northumberland." It is a romance of the 
style of Cleojpdtre and Cyrus^ to enjoy which in 
the nineteenth century would require a curious 
and acquired taste. LHllustre Bassa was a 
romance of Scuderi ; and the passage in the 
epistle to which Dorothy refers, — we quote it 
from a translation by one Henry Cogan, 1652, — 
runs as follows : '' And if you see not my hero 
persecuted with love by women, it is not because 
he was not amiable, and that he could not be 
loved, but because it would clash with civility in 
the persons of ladies, and with true resemblance 



250 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

in that of men, who rarely show themselves cruel 
unto them, nor in doing it could have any good 
grace." 

Sir, — The lady was in the right. You are a 
very pretty gentleman and a modest ; were there 
ever such stories as these you tell ? The best 
on't is, I believe none of them unless it be that 
of my Lady Newport, which I must confess is so 
like her that if it be not true 'twas at least ex- 
cellently well fancied. But my Lord Rich was 
not caught, tho' he was near it My Lady 
Devonshire, whose daughter his first wife was, 
has engaged my Lord Warwick to put a stop to 
the business. Otherwise, I think his present 
want of fortune, and the little sense of honour 
he has, might have been prevailed on to marry 
her. 

'Tis strange to see the folly that possesses the 
young people of this age, and the liberty they 
take to themselves. I have the charity to be- 
lieve they appear very much worse than they 
are, and that the want of a Court to govern 
themselves by is in great part the cause of their 
ruin ; though that was no perfect school of vir- 
tue, yet Yice there wore her mask, and appeared 
so unlike herself that she gave no scandal. Such 
as were really discreet as they seemed to be gave 
good example, and the eminency of their condi- 
tion made others strive to imitate them, or at 



The Last of Chichsands 251 

least they durst not own a contrary course. All 
who had good principles and inclinations were 
encouraged in them, and such as had neither 
were forced to put on a handsome disguise that 
they might not be out of countenance at them- 
selves. 'Tis certain (what you say) that where 
divine or human laws are not positive we may 
be our own judges ; nobody can hinder us, nor is 
it in itself to be blamed. But, sure, it is not 
safe to take all liberty that is allowed us, — there 
are not many that are sober enough to be trusted 
with the government of themselves ; and because 
others judge us with more severity than our in- 
dulgence to ourselves will permit, it must neces- 
sarily follow that 'tis safer being ruled by their 
opinions than by our own. I am disputing 
again, though you told me my fault so plainly. 

I'll give it over, and tell you that Parthenissa 
is now my company. My brother sent it down, 
and I have almost read it. 'Tis handsome lan- 
guage ; you would know it to be writ by a person 
of good quality though you were not told it ; 
but, on the whole, I am not very much taken 
with it. All the stories have too near a resem- 
blance with those of other romances, there is 
nothing new or surprenant in them ; the ladies 
are all so kind they make no sport, and I meet 
only with one that took me by doing a handsome 
thing of the kind. She was in a besieged town, 



252 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

and persuaded all those of her sex to go out with 
her to the enemy (which were a barbarous peo- 
ple) and die by their swords, that the provisions 
of the town might last the longer for such as 
were able to do service in defending it. But 
how angry was I to see him spoil this again by 
bringing out a letter this woman left behind her 
for the governor of the town, where she dis- 
covers a passion for him, and makes that the 
reason why she did it. I confess I have no pa- 
tience for our faiseurs de Romance when they 
make a woman court. It will never enter into 
my head that 'tis possible any woman can love 
where she is not first loved, and much less that 
if they should do that, they could have the face 
to own it. Methinks he that writes Villustre 
Bassa says well in his epistle that we are not to 
imagine his hero to be less taking than those of 
other romances because the ladies do not fall in 
love with him whether he will or not. 'Twould 
be an injury to the ladies to suppose they could 
do so, and a greater to his hero's civility if he 
should put him upon being cruel to them, since 
he was to love but one. Another fault I find, 
too, in the style — 'tis affected. Amhitioned is a 
great word with him, and ignore ; my concern, 
or of great concern, is, it seems, properer than 
concernment : and though he makes his people 
say fine handsome things to one another, yet 



The Last of Chichsands 253 

they are not easy and ridive like the French, and 
there is a little harshness in most of the discourse 
that one would take to be the fault of a transla- 
tor rather than of an author. But perhaps I like 
it the worse for having a piece of Cyrus by me 
that I am hugely pleased with, and that I would 
fain have you read : I'll send it you. At least 
read one story that 111 mark you down, if you 
have time for no more. I am glad you stay to 
wait on your sister. I would have my gallant 
civil to all, much more when it is so due, and 
kindness too. 

I have the cabinet, and 'tis in earnest a pretty 
one ; though you will not own it for a present, 
I'll keep it as one, and 'tis like to be yours no 
more but as 'tis mine. I'll warrant you would 
ne'er have thought of making me a present of 
charcoal as my servant James would have done, 
to warm my heart I think he meant it. But the 
truth is, I had been inquiring for some (as 'tis a 
commodity scarce enough in this country), and 
he hearing it, told the baily [bailiff ?] he would 
give him some if 'twere for me. But this is not 
all. I cannot forbear telling you the other day 
he made me a visit, and I, to prevent his making 
discourse to me, made Mrs. Goldsmith and Jane 
sit by all the while. But he came better pro- 
vided than I could have imagined. He brought 
a letter with him, and gave it me as one he had 



254 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

met with directed to me, he thought it came out 
of Northamptonshire. I was upon my guard, and 
suspecting all he said, examined him so strictly 
where he had it before I would open it, that he 
was hugely confounded, and I confirmed that 
'twas his. I laid it by and wished that they 
would have left us, that I might have taken 
notice on't to him. But I had forbid it them so 
strictly before, that they offered not to stir 
farther than to look out of window, as not think- 
ing there was any necessity of giving us their 
eyes as well as their ears ; but he that saw him- 
self discovered took that time to confess to me 
(in a whispering voice that I could hardly hear 
myself) that the letter (as my Lord Broghill saj^s) 
was of g7'eat concern to him, and begged I would 
read it, and give him my answer. I took it up 
presently, as if I had meant it, but threw it, 
sealed as it was, into the fire, and told him (as 
softly as he had spoke to me) I thought that the 
quickest and best wa}'' of answering it. He sat 
awhile in great disorder, without speaking a 
word, and so ris and took his leave. Now what 
think you, shall I ever hear of him more ? 

You do not thank me for using your rival so 
scurvily nor are not jealous of him, though your 
father thinks my intentions were not handsome 
towards you, which methinks is another argu- 
ment that one is not to be one's own judge ; for I 



The Last of Chichsands 255 

am very confident they were, and with his favour 
shall never believe otherwise. I am sure I have 
no ends to serve of my own in what I did, — it 
could be no advantage to me that had firmly re- 
solved not to marry ; but I thought it might be 
an injury to you to keep you in expectation of 
what was never likely to be, as I apprehended. 
"Why do I enter into this wrangling discourse ? 
Let your father think me what he pleases, if he 
ever comes to know me, the rest of my actions 
shall justify me in this ; if he does not, I'll begin 
to practise on him (what you so often preached 
to me) to neglect the report of the world, and 
satisfy myself in my own innocency. 

'Twill be pleasinger to you, I am sure, to tell 
you how fond I am of your lock. Well, in ear- 
nest now, and setting aside all compliments, I 
never saw finer hair, nor of a better colour ; but 
cut no more on't, I would not have it spoiled for 
the world. If you love me, be careful on't. I 
am combing, and curling, and kissing this lock 
all day, and dreaming on't all night. The ring, 
too, is very well, only a little of the biggest. 
Send me a tortoise one that is a little less than 
that I sent for a pattern. I would not have the 
rule so absolutely true without exception that 
hard hairs be ill-natured, for then I should be so. 
But I can allow that all soft hairs are good, and 
so are you, or I am deceived as much as you are 



256 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

if you think I do not love you enough. Tell me, 
my dearest, am I ? You will not be if you think 
I am 

Yours. 

Letter 52. — It is interesting to find Dorothy 
reading the good Jeremy Taylor's Holy Living^ 
a book too little known in this day. For amidst 
its old-fashioned piety there are many sentiments 
of practical goodness, expressed with clear insist- 
ence, combined with a quaint grace of literary 
style which we have long ago cast aside in the 
pursuit of other things. Dorothy loved this 
book, and knew it well. Compare the following 
extract from the chapter on Christian Justice 
with what Dorothy has written in this letter. 
Has she been recently reading this passage? 
Perhaps she has ; but more probably it is the 
recollection of what is well known that she is re- 
producing from a memory not unstored with 
such learning. Thus writes Dr. Taylor : " There 
is very great peace and immunity from sin in re- 
signing our wills up to the command of others : 
for, provided our duty to God be secured, their 
commands are warrants to us in all things else ; 
and the case of conscience is determined, if the 
command be evident and pressing : and it is 
certain, the action that is but indifferent and 
without reward, if done only upon our own 
choice, is an action of duty and of religion, and 
rewardable by the grace and favour of God, if 
done in obedience to the command of our supe- 
riors." 

Little and Great Brickhill, where Temple is to 



The Last of ChicTcsands 257 

receive a letter from Dorothy, kindly favoured 
by Mr. Gibson, stand due west of Quicksands 
some seventeen miles, and about forty-six miles 
along the high-road from London to Chester. 
Temple would probably arrange to stay there, 
receive Dorothy's letter, and send one in return, 

Dorothy has apparently tired of Calprenede 
and Scuderi, of CUopdtre and Cyrus, and has 
turned to travels to amuse her. Fernando 
Mendez Pinto did, I believe, actually visit China, 
and is said to have landed in the Gulf of Pekin. 
What he writes of China seems to bear some re- 
semblance to what later writers have said. It is 
hard to say how and where his conversations 
with the Chinese were carried on, as he himself 
admits that he did not understand one word of 
the language. 

Lady Grey's sister, Mrs. Pooley, is unknown 
to history. Of Mr. Fish we know, as has already 
been said, nothing more than that he was Doro- 
thy's lover, and a native of Bedfordshire, prob- 
ably her near neighbour. James B must be 

another lover, and he is altogether untraceable. 
Mrs. Goldsmith is, as you will remember, wife of 
the Yicar of Campton. The Valentine stories 
will date this letter for us as written in the latter 
half of February. 



SiE, — They say you gave order for this waste- 
paper ; how do you think I could ever fill it, or 
with what ? I am not always in the humour to 
wrangle and dispute. For example now, I had 
rather agree to what you say, than tell you that 



258 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

Dr. Taylor (whose devote you must know I am) 
says there is a great advantage to be gained in 
resigning up one's will to the command of an- 
other, because the same action which in itself is 
wholly indifferent, if done upon our own choice, 
becomes an act of duty and religion if done in 
obedience to the command of any person whom 
nature, the laws, or ourselves have given a power 
over us ; so that though in an action already 
done we can only be our own judges, because we 
only know with what intentions it was done, yet 
in any we intend, 'tis safest, sure, to take the ad- 
vice of another. Let me practise this towards 
you as well as preach it to you, and I'll lay a 
wager you will approve on't. But I am chiefly 
of your opinion that contentment (which the 
Spanish proverb says is the best paint) gives the 
lustre to all one's enjoyment, puts a beauty upon 
things which without it would have none, in- 
creases it extremely where 'tis already in some 
degree, and Avithout it, all that we call hapi)iness 
besides loses its property. What is contentment, 
must be left to every particular person to judge 
for themselves, since they only know what is so 
to them which differs in all according to their 
several humours. Only you and I agree 'tis to 
be found by us in a true friend, a moderate for- 
tune, and a retired life ; the last I thank God I 
have in perfection. My cell is almost finished, 



The Last of Chichsands 259 

and when you come back you'll find me in it, 
and bring me both the rest I hope. 

I find it much easier to talk of your coming 
back than your going. You shall never persuade 
me I send you this journey. No, pray let it be 
your father's commands, or a necessity your for- 
tune puts upon you. 'Twas unkindly said to tell 
me I banish you ; your heart never told it you, I 
dare swear ; nor mine ne'er thought it. No, my 
dear, this is our last misfortune, let's bear it 
nobly. Nothing shows we deserve a punish- 
ment so much as our murmuring at it ; and the 
way to lessen those we feel, and to 'scape those 
we fear, is to suffer patiently what is imposed, 
making a virtue of necessity. 'Tis not that I 
have less kindness or more courage than you, but 
that mistrusting myself more (as I have more 
reason), I have armed myself all that is possible 
against this occasion. I have thought that there 
is not much difference between your being at 
Dublin or at London, as our affairs stand. You 
can write and hear from the first, and I should 
not see you sooner if you continued still at the 
last. 

Besides, I hope this journey will be of advan- 
tage to us ; when your father pressed your com- 
ing over he told you, you needed not doubt either 
his power or his will. Have I done anything 
since that deserves he should alter his intentions 



260 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

towards us ? Or has any accident lessened his 
power ? If neither, we may hope to be happy, 
and the sooner for this journey. I dare not send 
my boy to meet you at Brickhill nor any other 
of the servants, they are all too talkative. But I 
can get Mr. Gibson, if you will, to bring you a 
letter. 'Tis a civil, well-natured man as can be, 
of excellent principles and exact honesty. I durst 
make him my confessor, though he is not obliged by 
his orders to conceal anything that is told him. 
But you must tell me then which Brickhill it is 
you stop at, Little or Great ; they are neither of 
them far from us. If you stay there you will 
write back by him, will you not, a long letter ? 
I shall need it ; besides that, you owe it me for 
the last being so short. Would you saw what 
letters my brother writes me ; you are not half so 
kind. Well, he is always in the extremes ; since 
our last quarrel he has courted me more than 
ever he did in his life, and made me more pres- 
ents, which, considering his humour, is as great 
a testimony of his kindness as 'twas of Mr. 
Smith's to my Lady Sunderland when he pre- 
sented Mrs. Camilla. He sent me one this week 
which, in earnest, is as pretty a thing as I have 
seen, a China trunk, and the finest of the kind 
that e'er I saw. By the way (this puts me in 
mind on't), have you read the story of China 
written by a Portuguese, Fernando Mendez Pinto, 



The Last of ChicTcsands 261 

I think his name is ? If you have not, take it 
with you, 'tis as diverting a book of the kind as 
ever I read, and is as handsomely written. You 
must allow him the privilege of a traveller, and 
he does not abuse it. His lies are as pleasant 
harmless ones, as lies can be, and in no great 
number considering the scope he has for them. 
There is one in Dublin now, that ne'er saw much 
farther, has told me twice as many (I dare swear) 
of Ireland. If I should ever live to see that 
country and be in't, I should make excellent 
sport with them. 'Tis a sister of my Lady 
Grey's, her name is Pooley ; her husband lives 
there too, but I am afraid in no very good con- 
dition. They were but poor, and she lived here 
with her sisters when I knew her ; 'tis not half 
a year since she went, I think. If you hear of 
her, send me word how she makes a shift there. 
And hark you, can you tell me whether the 
gentleman that lost a crystal box the 1st of 
February in St. James' Park or Old Spring Gar- 
dens has found it again or not, I have strong cu- 
riosity to know ? Tell me, and I'll tell you 
something that you don't know, which is, that I 
am your Valentine and you are mine. I did not 
think of drawing any, but Mrs. Goldsmith and 
Jane would need make me some for them and 
myself; so I writ down our three names, and 
for men Mr. Fish, James B., and you. I cut 



262 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

them all equal and made them up myself before 
them, and because I would owe it wholly to my 
good fortune if I were pleased. I made both 
them choose first that had never seen what was 
in them, and they left me you. Then I made 
them choose again for theirs, and my name was 
left. You cannot imagine how I was delighted 
with this little accident, but by taking notice that 
I cannot forbear telling you it. I was not half 
so pleased with my encounter next morning. I 
was up early, but with no design of getting an- 
other Yalentine, and going out to walk in my 
night-cloak and night-gown, I met Mr. Fish go- 
ing a hunting, I think he was ; but he stayed to 
tell me I was his Valentine ; and I should not 
have been rid on him quickly, if he had not 
thought himself a little too negligee^ his hair 
was not powdered, and his clothes were but ordi- 
nary ; to say truth, he looked then methought 
like other mortal people. Yet he was as hand- 
some as your Yalentine. I'll swear you wanted 
one when you took her, and had very ill fortune 
that nobody met you before her. Oh, if I had 
not terrified my little gentleman when he brought 
me his own letter, now sure I had had him for 
my Valentine ! 

On my conscience, I shall follow your counsel 
if e'er he comes again, but I am persuaded he will 
not. I writ my brother that story for want of 



The Last of ChicTcsands 263 

something else, and he says I did very well, 
there was no other way to be rid on him ; and 
he makes a remark upon't that I can be severe 
enough when I please, and wishes I would prac- 
tise it somewhere else as well as there. Can you 
tell where that is ? I never understand anybody 
that does not speak plain English, and he never 
uses that to me of late, but tells me the finest 
stories (I may apply them how I please) of peo- 
ple that have married when they thought there 
was great kindness, and how miserably they have 
found themselves deceived ; how despicable they 
have made themselves by it, and how sadly they 
have repented on't. He reckons more inconven- 
iency than you do that follows good nature, says 
it makes one credulous, apt to be abused, betrays 
one to the cunning of people that make ad- 
vantage on't, and a thousand such things which 
I hear half asleep and half awake, and take little 
notice of, unless it be sometimes to say that with 
all these faults I would not be without it. No, 
in earnest, nor I could not love any person that 
I thought had it not to a good degree. 'Twas 
the first thing I liked in you, and without it I 
should never have liked anything. I know 'tis 
counted simple, but I cannot imagine why. 'Tis 
true some people have it that have not wit, but 
there are at least as many foolish people I have 
ever observed to be fullest of tricks, little ugly 



264 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

plots and designs, unnecessary disguises, and 
mean cunnings, which are the basest qualities in 
the world, and makes one the most contemptible, 
I think ; when I once discover them they lose 
their credit with me for ever. Some will say 
they are cunning only in their own defence, and 
that there is no living in this world without it ; 
but I cannot understand how anything more is 
necessary to one's own safety besides a prudent 
caution ; that I now think is, though I can re- 
member when nobody could have persuaded me 
that anybody meant ill when it did not appear 
by their words and actions. I remember my 
mother (who, if it may be allowed me to say it) 
was counted as wise a woman as most in Eng- 
land, — when she seemed to distrust anybody, and 
saw I took notice on't, would ask if I did not 
think her too jealous and a little ill-natured. 
" Come, I know you do," says she, " if you would 
confess it, and I cannot blame you. When I was 
young as you are, I thought my father-in-law 
(who was a wise man) the most unreasonably 
suspicious man that ever was, and disliked him 
for it hugely ; but I have lived to see it is almost 
impossible to think people worse than they are, 
and so will you." I did not believe her, and less, 
that I should have more to say to you than this 
paper would hold. It shall never be said I be- 
gan another at this time of night, though I have 



The Last of Chichsands 265 

spent this idly, that should have told you with a 
little more circumstance how perfectly 

I am yours. 

Letter 53. — Dorothy's brother seems to have 
got hold of a new weapon of attack in Temple's 
religious opinions, which might have led to a 
strategic success in more skilful hands. He only 
manages to exasperate Dorothy with himself, 
not with Temple. As for Temple, he has not al- 
together escaped the censure of the orthodox. 
Gossiping Bishop Burnet, in one of his more ill- 
natured passages, tells us that Temple was an 
Epicurean, thinking religion to be fit only for the 
mob, and a corrupter of all that came near him. 
Unkind words these, with just, perhaps, those 
dregs of truth in them which make gossip so hard 
to bear patiently. Was it true, as Courtenay 
thinks, that jealousy of King William's attach- 
ment to Temple disturbed the episcopal equipoise 
of soul, rendering his Lordship slanderous, even 
a backbiter? 

Eobin C. is probably one of the Cheeke family. 

Bagshawe is Edward Bagshawe the Elder, B. 
A. of Brasenose, Oxford, and of the Middle Tem- 
ple, barrister-at-law. In the early part of the 
century he had been a Puritan among Puritans, 
and in the old hall of the Middle Temple had de- 
livered two lectures to show that bishops may 
not meddle in civil affairs, and that a Parlia- 
ment may be held without bishops ; questions 
still unsettled. Laud appears to have prohibited 
these lectures. Bagshawe in after life joined the 
King at Oxford, and suffered imprisonment at 



266 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

the hands of his former friends in the King's 
Bench Prison from 1644 to 1646. Young Sir 
Harry Yelverton, Lady Euthin's husband, broke 
a theological lance with his son, the younger 
Edward Bagshawe, to vindicate the cause of the 
Church of England. The elder Bagshawe died 
in 1662, and was buried at Morton Pinckney, in 
Northamptonshire. How and why he railed at 
love and marriage it is impossible now to know. 
Edward Bagshawe the younger published in 1671 
an Antidote against Mr. Baxter'^s Treatise of 
Love and Marriage. 

The preaching woman at Somerset House was, 
in all probability, Mrs. Hannah Trupnel. She, 
that in April of this year is spoken of, in an old 
news-book, as having " lately acted her part in a 
trance so many days at Whitehall." She appears 
to have been full of mystical, anti-Puritan 
prophecies, and was indicted in Cornwall as a 
rogue and vagabond, convicted and bound over 
in recognizances to behave herself in future. 
After this she abandoned her design of passing 
from county to county disaffecting the people 
with her prophecies, and we hear no more of 
her. 

Sir, — 'Tis well you have given over your re- 
proaches ; I can allow you to tell me of my faults 
kindly and like a friend. Possibly it is a weak- 
ness in me to aim at the world's esteem, as if I 
could not be happy without it; but there are 
certain things that custom has made almost of 
absolute necessity, and reputation I take to be 



The Last of Ckichsands 267 

one of these. If one could be invisible I should 
choose that ; but since all people are seen or 
known, and shall be talked of in spite of their 
teeth, who is it that does not desire, at least, 
that nothing of ill may be said of them, whether 
justly or otherwise ? I never knew any so satis- 
lied with their own innocence as to be content 
that the world should think them guilty. Some 
out of pride have seemed to contemn ill reports 
when they have found they could not avoid 
them, but none out of strength of reason, though 
many have pretended to it. No, not my Lady 
Newcastle with all her philosophy, therefore you 
must not expect it from me. I shall never be 
ashamed to own that I have a particular value 
for you above any other, but 'tis not the greatest 
merit of person will excuse a want of fortune ; in 
some degree I think it will, at least with the 
most rational part of the world, and, as far as 
that will read, I desire it should. I would not 
have the world believe I married out of interest 
and to please my friends; I had much rather 
they should know I chose the person, and took 
his fortune, because 'twas necessary, and that I 
prefer a competency Avith one I esteem infinitely 
before a vast estate in other hands. 'Tis much 
easier, sure, to get a good fortune than a good 
husband ; but whosoever marries without any 
consideration of fortune shall never be allowed 



^68 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

to do it, but of so reasonable an apprehension 
the whole world (without any reserve) shall 
pronounce they did it merely to satisfy their 
giddy humour. 

Besides, though you imagine 'twere a great 
argument of my kindness to consider nothing 
but you, in earnest I believe 'twould be an injury 
to you. I do not see that it puts any value upon 
men when women marry them for love (as they 
term it) ; 'tis not their merit, but our folly that is 
always presumed to cause it ; and would it be 
any advantage to you to have your wife thought 
an indiscreet person ? All this I can say to you ; 
but when my brother disputes it with me I have 
other arguments for him, and I drove him up so 
close t'other night that for want of a better gap 
to get out at he was fain to say that he feared as 
much your having a fortune as your having none, 
for he saw you held my Lord Lt.'s [? Lieutenant's] 
principles. That religion and honour were things 
you did not consider at all, and that he was con- 
fident you would take any engagement, serve in 
employment, or do anything to advance yourself. 
I had no patience for this. To say you were a 
beggar, your father not worth £4000 in the 
whole world, was nothing in comparison of hav- 
ing no religion nor no honour. I forgot all my 
disguise, and we talked ourselves weary ; he re- 
nounced me, and I defied him, but both in as 



The Last of CJiichsands 269 

civil language as it would permit, and parted in 
great anger with the usual ceremony of a leg and 
a courtesy, that you would have died with laugh- 
ing to have seen us. 

The next day I, not being at dinner, saw him 
not till night ; then he came into my chamber, 
where I supped but he did not. Afterwards Mr. 
Gibson and he and I talked of indifferent things 
till all but we two went to bed. Then he sat 
half-an-hour and said not one word, nor I to him. 
At last, in a pitiful tone, " Sister," says he, " I 
have heard you say that when anything troubles 
you, of all things you apprehend going to bed, 
because there it increases upon you, and you lie 
at the mercy of all your sad thought, which the 
silence and darkness of the night adds a horror 
to ; I am at that pass now. I vow to God I 
would not endure another night like the last to 
gain a crown." I, who resolved to take no notice 
what ailed him, said 'twas a knowledge I had 
raised from my spleen only, and so fell into a 
discourse of melancholy and the causes, and from 
that (I know not how) into religion ; and we 
talked so long of it, and so devoutly, that it laid 
all our anger. We grew to a calm and peace 
with all the world. Two hermits conversing in a 
cell they equally inhabit, ne'er expressed more 
humble, charitable kindness, one towards an- 
other, than we. He asked my pardon and I his, 



270 Lo'ce Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

and he has promised me never to speak of it to 
me whilst he lives, but leave the event to God 
Almighty ; until he sees it done, he will always 
be the same to me that he is ; then he shall leave 
me, he says, not out of want of kindness to me, 
but because he cannot see the ruin of a person 
that he loves so passionately, and in whose happi- 
ness he has laid up all his. . These are the terras 
we are at, and I am confident he will keep his 
word with me, so that you have no reason to fear 
him in any respect ; for though he should break 
his promise, he should never make me break 
mine. No, let me assure you this rival, nor any 
other, shall ever alter me, therefore spare your 
jealousy, or turn it all into kindness. 

I will write every week, and no miss of letters 
shall give us any doubts of one another. Time 
nor accidents shall not prevail upon our hearts, 
and, if God Almighty please to bless us, we will 
meet the same we are, or happier. I will do all 
you bid me. I will pray, and wish, and hope, 
but you must do so too, then, and be so careful 
of yourself that I may have nothing to reproach 
you with when you come back. 

That vile wench lets you see all my scribbles, 
I believe ; how do you know I took care your 
hair should not be spoiled ? 'Tis more than e'er 
you did, I think, you are so negligent on't, and 
keep it so ill, 'tis pity you should have it. May 



!rhe Last of Chichsands 271 

you have better luck in the cutting it than I had 
with mine. I cut it two or three years agone, 
and it never grew since. Look to it ; if I keep 
the lock you give me better than you do all the 
rest, I shall not spare you ; expect to be soundly 
chidden. What do you mean to do with all my 
letters ? Leave them behind you ? If you do, 
it must be in safe hands, some of them concern 
you, and me, and other people besides us very 
much, and they will almost load a horse to 
carry. 

Does not my cousin at Moor Park mistrust us 
a little ? I have a great belief they do. I am 

sure Robin C told my brother of it since I 

was last in town. Of all things, I admire my 
cousin MoUe has not got it by the end, he that 
frequents that family so much, and is at this in- 
stant at Kimbolton. If he has, and conceals it, 
he is very discreet ; I could never discern by 
anything that he knew it. I shall endeavour to 
accustom myself to the noise on't, and make it as 
easy to me as I can, though I had much rather it 
were not talked of till there were an absolute 
necessity of discovering it, and you can oblige 
me in nothing more than in concealing it. I take 
it very kindly that you promise to use all your 
interest in your father to persuade him to endeav- 
our our happiness, and he appears so confident 
of his power that it gives me great hopes. 



272 Love Letters from 2)orothy Osborne 

Dear ! shall we ever be so happy, think you ? 
Ah ! I dare not hope it. Yet 'tis not want of 
love gives me these fears. No, in earnest, I 
think (nay, I'm sure) I love you more than ever, 
and 'tis that only gives me these despairing- 
thoughts ; when I consider how small a propor- 
tion of happiness is allowed in this world, and 
how great mine would be in a person for whom 
I have a passionate kindness, and who has the 
same for me. As it is infinitely above what I 
can deserve, and more than God Almighty usually 
allots to the best people, I can find nothing in 
reason but seems to be against me ; and, me- 
thinks, 'tis as vain in me to expect it as 'twould 
be to hope I might be a queen (if that were 
really as desirable a thing as 'tis thought to be) ; 
and it is just it should be so. 

We complain of this world, and the variety of 
crosses and afflictions it abounds in, and yet for 
all this who is weary on't (more than in dis- 
course), who thinks with pleasure of leaving it, 
or preparing for the next ? We see old folks, 
who have outlived all the comforts of life, desire 
to continue in it, and nothing can wean us from 
the folly of preferring a mortal being, subject to 
great infirmity and unavoidable decays, before 
an immortal one, and all the glories that are 
promised with it. Is this not very like preach- 
ing ? Well, 'tis too good for you ; you shall have 



The Last of CKichsands 273 

no more on't. I am afraid you are not mortified 
enough for such discourse to work upon (though 
I am not of my brother's opinion, neither, that 
you have no religion in you). In earnest, I never 
took anything he ever said half so ill, as nothing, 
sure, is so great an injury. It must suppose one 
to be a devil in human shape. Oh, me ! now I 
am speaking of religion, let me ask you is not his 
name Bagshawe that you say rails on love and 
women ? Because I heard one t'other day speak- 
ing of him, and commending his wit, but withal, 
said he was a perfect atheist. If so, I can allow 
him to hate us, and love, which, sure, has some- 
thing of divine in it, since God requires it of us. 
I am coming into my preaching vein again. 
"What think you, were it not a good way of pref- 
erment as the times are ? If you'll advise me to 
it I'll venture. The woman at Somerset House 
was cried up mightily. Think on't. 

Dear, I am yours. 

Letter 54. — Temple has really started on his 
journey, and is now past Brickhill, far away in 
the north of England. The journey to Ireland 
was made via Holyhead in those days as it is 
now. It was a four days' journey to Chester, 
and no good road after. The great route 
through wales to Holyhead was in such a state 
that in 1685 the Viceroy going to Ireland was 
five hours in travelling the fourteen miles from 
St. Asaph to Conway ; between Conway and 



^74 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

Beaumaris he walked ; and his lady was carried 
in a litter. A carriage was often taken to pieces 
at Conway, and carried to the Menai Straits on 
the peasants' shoulders round the dangerous cliff 
of Penmaenmawr. Mr. B. and Mr. D. remain 
mysterious symbolic initials of gossip and scan- 
dalmongering. St. Gregory's near St. Paul's, 
was a church entirely destroyed by the great 
fire. 

Sir John Tufton of " The Mote," near Maid- 
stone, married Mary, the third daughter and co- 
heiress of Thomas Lord Wotton. 

For your Master [seal with coat-of-arms], 
when yom* Mistress pleases. 

Sir, — You bid me write every week, and I am 
doing it without considering how it will come to 
you. Let Nan look to that, with whom, I sup- 
pose, you have left the orders of conveyance. I 
have your last letter ; but Jane, to whom you 
refer me, is not yet come down. On Tuesday I 
expect her ; and if she be not engaged, I shall 
give her no cause hereafter to believe that she is 
a burden to me, though I have no employment 
for her but that of talking to me when I am in 
the humour of saying nothing. Your dog is 
come too, and I have received him with all the 
kindness that is due to anything you send. I 
have defended him from the envy and malice of 
a troop of greyhounds that used to be in favour 



The Last of ChicTcsands 2T5 

with me ; and he is so sensible of my care over 
him, that he is pleased with nobody else, and 
follows me as if we had been of long acquaint- 
ance. 'Tis well you are gone past my recovery. 
My heart has failed me twenty times since you 
went, and, had you been within my call, I had 
brought you back as often, though I know thirty 
miles' distance and three hundred are the same 
thing. You will be so kind, I am sure, as to 
write back by the coach and tell me what the 
success of your journey so far has been. After 
that, I expect no more (unless you stay for a 
wind) till you arrive at Dublin. I pity your 
sister in earnest ; a sea voyage is welcome to no 
lady ; but you are beaten to it, and 'twill become 
you, now you are a conductor, to show your 
valour and keep your company in heart. When 
do you think of coming back again ? I am ask- 
ing that before you are at your journey's end. 
You will not take it ill that I desire it should be 
soon. In the meantime, I'll practise all the rules 
you give me. Who told you I go to bed late ? 
In earnest, they do me wrong : I have been 
faulty in that point heretofore, I confess, but 'tis 
a good while since I gave it over with ray read- 
ing o' nights ; but in the daytime I cannot live 
without it, and 'tis all my diversion, and infinitely 
more pleasing to me than any company but 
yours. And yet I am not given to it in any ex- 



276 Love Letters from Dorothy Osbornd 

cess now ; I have been very much more. 'Tis 
Jane, I know, tells all these tales of me. I shall 
be even with her some time or other, but for the 
present I long for her with some impatience, that 
she may tell me all you have told her. 

Never trust me if I had not a suspicion from 

the first that 'twas that ill-looked fellow B 

who made that story Mr. D told you. That 

which gave me the first inclination to that belief 
was the circumstance you told me of their seeing 
me at St. Gregory's. For I remembered to have 

seen B there, and had occasion to look up 

into the gallery where he sat, to answer a very 
civil salute given me from thence by Mr. Free- 
man, and saw B in a great whisper with an- 
other that sat next him, and pointing to me. If 

Mr. D had not been so nice in discovering 

his name, you would quickly have been cured of 
your jealousy. Never believe I have a servant 
that I do not tell you of as soon as I know it my- 
self. As, for example, my brother Peyton has 
sent to me, for a countryman of his. Sir John 
Tufton, — he married one of my Lady Wotton's 
heirs, who is lately dead, — and to invite me to 
think of it. Besides his person and his fortune, 
without exception, he tells me what an excellent 
husband he was to this lady that's dead, who was 
but a crooked, ill-favoured woman, only she 
brought him £1500 a year. I tell him I believe 



The Last of Chichsands 277 

Sir John Tufton could be content, I were so too 
upon the same terms. But his loving his first 
wife can be no argument to persuade me ; for if 
he had loved her as he ought to do, I cannot 
hope he should love another so well as I expect 
anybody should that has me ; and if he did not 
love her, I have less to expect he should me. I 
do not care for a divided heart ; I must have all 
or none, at least the first place in it. Poor 
James, I have broke his. He says 'twould pity 
you to hear what sad complaints he makes ; and, 
but that he has not the heart to hang himself, 
he would be very well contented to be out of 
the world. 

That house of your cousin E is fatal to 

physicians. Dr. Smith that took it is dead 
already; but maybe this was before you went, 
and so is no news to you. I shall be sending 
you all I hear ; which, though it cannot be much, 
living as I do, yet it may be more than ventures 
into Ireland. I would have you diverted, whilst 
you are there, as much as possible ; but not 
enough to tempt you to stay one minute longer 
than your father and your business obliges you. 
Alas ! I have already repented all my share in 
your journey, and begin to find I am not half 
so valiant as I sometimes take myself to be. 
The knowledge that our interests are the same, 
and that I shall be happy or unfortunate in your 



278 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

person as much or more than in my own, does 
not give me that confidence you speak of. It 
rather increases my doubts, and I durst trust 
your fortune alone, rather than now that mine is 
joined with it. Yet I will hope yours may be so 
good as to overcome the ill of mine, and shall 
endeavour to mend my own all I can by striving 
to deserve it, maybe, better. My dearest, will 
you pardon me that I am forced to leave you so 
soon ? The next shall be longer, though I can 
never be more than I am 

Yours. 

Letter 55. — This sad letter, fully dated 18th 
March 1654, was written after Sir Peter Osborne 
was buried in Campton Church. Even as Dor- 
othy wrote this, the stone-mason might be slowly 
carving words that may be read to this day : 
" The maintainer of divine exercises, the friend 
to the poor." Her father is no longer living, 
and she is now even more lonely than before. 
To depend upon kindred that are not friends, to 
be under the protection of a brother who is her 
lover's avowed enemy, this is her lot in life, 
unless Temple can release her from it. Alas ! 
poor Dorothy, who will now forbear to pity 
you? 

March the ISth, 1654. 
How true it is that a misfortune never comes 
single ; we live in expectation of some one hap- 
piness that we propose to ourselves, an age al- 



The Last of Chichsands 279 

most, and perhaps miss it at the last ; but sad ac- 
cidents have wings to overtake us, and come in 
flocks like ill-boding ravens. You were no sooner 
gone but (as if that had not been enough) I lost 
the best father in the world ; and though, as to 
himself, it was an infinite mercy in God Almighty 
to take him out of a world that can be pleasing 
to none, and was made more uneasy to him by 
many infirmities that were upon him, yet to me 
it is an affliction much greater than people judge 
it. Besides all that is due to nature and the 
memory of many (more than ordinary) kindnesses 
received from him, besides what he was to all 
that knew him, and what he was to me in partic- 
ular, I am left by his death in the condition (which 
of all others) is the most unsupportable to my 
nature, to depend upon kindred that are not 
friends, and that, though I pay as much as I 
should do to a stranger, yet think they do me a 
courtesy. I expect my eldest brother to-day ; if 
he comes, I shall be able to tell you before I seal 
this up where you are likely to find me. If he 
offers me to stay here, this hole will be more 
agreeable to my humour than any place that is 
more in the world. I take it kindly that you used 
art to conceal our story and satisfy my nice ap- 
prehensions, but I'll not impose that constraint 
upon you any longer, for I find my kind brother 
publishes it with more earnestness than ever I 



280 Love Letters from Dorothy Oshoi'ne 

strove to conceal it ; and with more disadvantage 
than anybody else would. Now he has tried all 
ways to do what he desires, and finds it is in vain, 
he resolves to revenge himself upon me, by rep- 
resenting this action in such colours as will amaze 
all people that know me, and do not know him 
enough to discern his malice to me ; he is not 
able to forbear showing it now, when my condi- 
tion deserves pity from all the world, I think, 
and that he himself has newly lost a father, as 
well as I ; but takes this time to torment me, 
which appears (at least to me) so barbarous a 
cruelty, that though I thank God I have charity 
enough perfectly to forgive all the injury he can 
do me, yet I am afraid I shall never look upon 
him as a brother more. And now do you judge 
whether I am not very unhappy, and whether 
that sadness in my face you used to complain of 
was not suited to my fortune. You must confess 
it ; and that my kindness for you is beyond ex- 
ample, all these troubles are persecutions that 
make me weary of the "world before my time, and 
lessen the concernment I have for you, and in- 
stead of being persuaded as they would have me 
by their malicious stories, methinks I am obliged 
to love you more in recompense of all the injuries 
they have done you upon my score. I shall need 
nothing but my own heart to fortify me in this 
resolution, and desire nothing in return of it but 



The Last of Chicksands 281 

that your care of yourself may answer to that 
which I shall always have for your interests. 

I received your letter of the 10th of this month ; 
and I hope this will find you at your journey's 
end. In earnest, I have pitied your sister ex- 
tremely, and can easily apprehend how trouble- 
some this voyage must needs be to her, by know- 
ing what others have been to me ; yet, pray as- 
sure her I would not scruple at undertaking it 
myself to gain such an acquaintance, and would 
go much farther than where (I hope) she now is 
to serve her. I am afraid she will not think me 
a fit person to choose for a friend, that cannot 
agree with my own brother ; but I must trust 
you to tell my story for me, and will hope for a 
better character from you than he gives me; 
who, lest I should complain, resolves to prevent 
me, and possess my friends first that he is the in- 
jured party. I never magnified my patience to 
you, but I begin to have a good opinion on't since 
this trial ; yet, perhaps, I have no reason, and it 
may be as well a want of sense in me as of pas- 
sion ; however, you will not be displeased to know 
that I can endure all that he or anybody else can 
say, and that setting aside my father's death and 
your absence, I make nothing an affliction to me, 
though I am sorry, I confess, to see myself forc'd 
to keep such distances with one of his relations, 
because religion and nature and the custom of the 



282 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

world teaches otherwise. I see I shall not be 
able to satisfy you in this how I shall dispose of 
myself, for my brother is not come ; the next will 
certainly tell you. In the meantime, I expect 
with great impatience to hear of your safe ar- 
rival. 'Twas a disappointment that you missed 
those fair winds. I pleased myself extremely 
with a belief that they had made your voyage 
rather a diversion than a trouble, either to you 
or your company, but I hope your passage was as 
happy, if not as sudden, as you expected it ; let 
me hear often from you, and long letters. I do 
not count this so. Have no apprehensions from 
me, but all the care of yourself that you please. 
My melancholy has no anger in it ; and I believe 
the accidents of my life would work more upon 
any other than they do upon me, whose humour 
is always more prepared for them than that of 
gayer persons. I hear nothing that is worth 
your knowing; when I do, you shall know it. 
Tell me if there's anything I can do for you, and 
assure yourself I am perfectly 

Yours. 

Letter 56, — Temple has reached Dublin at last, 
and begins to write from there. This letter also 
is dated, and from this time forth there is less 
trouble in arranging the letters in order of date, 
as many of them have, at least, the day of the 
month, if nothing more. 



The Last of CMchsands 283 

The Marquis of Hertford was the Duke of 
Somerset's great-grandson. He married Lady- 
Arabella Stuart, daughter of Charles Stuart, Earl 
of Lennox, uncle of King James I., for which 
matrimonial adventure he was imprisoned in the 
Tower. His second wife was Frances, daughter 
of Robert, Earl of Essex, and sister to the great 
general of the Parliamentary Army. She was 
the mother of young Lord Beauchamp, whose 
death Dorothy deplores. He was twenty-eight 
years of age when he died. He married Mary, 
daughter of Lord Capel of Hadham, who after- 
wards married the Duke of Beaufort. 

Baptist Noel, Viscount Camden, was a noted 
loyalist. After the Restoration we find him ap- 
pointed Lord-Lieutenant of Rutland. Of his 
duel with Mr. Stafford there seems to be no ac- 
count. It did not carry him into the King's 
Bench Court, like Lord Chandos' duel, so history 
is silent about it. 

April the '2,nd, 1654. 

Sir, — There was never any lady more sur- 
prised than I was with your last. I read it so 
coldly, and was so troubled to find that you were 
so forward on your journey ; but when I came 
to the last, and saw Dublin at the date, I could 
scarce believe my eyes. In earnest, it transported 
me so that I could not forbear expressing my joy 
in such a manner as had anybody been by to have 
observed me they would have suspected me no 
very sober person. 



S84 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

You are safe arrived, you say, and pleased 
with the place already, only because you meet 
with a letter of mine there. In your next I ex- 
pect some other commendation on't, or else I 
shall hardly make such haste to it as people here 
believe I will. 

All the servants have been to take their leaves 
on me, and say how sorry they are to hear I am 
going out of the land ; some beggar at the door 
has made so ill a report of Ireland to them that 
they pit}'' me extremely, but you are pleased, I 
hope, to hear I am coming to you ; the next fair 
wind expect me. 'Tis not to be imagined the 
ridiculous stories they have made, nor how J. B. 
cries out on me for refusing him and choosing 
his chamber-fellow ; yet he pities me too, and 
swears I am condemned to be the miserablest 
person upon earth. With all his quarrel to me, 
he does not wish me so ill as to be married to the 
proudest, imperious, insulting, ill-natured man 
that ever was ; one that before he has had me a 
week shall use me with contempt, and believe 
that the favour was of his side. Is not this very 
comfortable ? But, pray, make it no quarrel ; I 
make it none, I assure you. And though he 
knew you before I did, I do not think he knows 
you so well ; besides that, his testimony is not of 
much value. 

I am to spend this next week in taking leave 



The Last of Chichsands 285 

of this country, and all the company in't, perhaps 
never to see it more. From hence I must go 
into Northamptonshire to my Lady Ruthin, and 
so to London, where I shall find my aunt and my 
brother Peyton, betwixt whom I think to divide 
this summer. 

Nothing has happened since you went worth 
your knowledge. My Lord Marquis Hertford 
has lost his son, my Lord Beauchamp, who has 
left a fine young widow. In earnest, 'tis great 
pity ; at the rate of our young nobility he was 
an extraordinary person, and remarkable for an 
excellent husband. My Lord Cambden, too, has 
fought with Mr. Stafford, but there's no harm 
done. You may discern the haste I'm in by my 
writing. There will come a time for a long letter 
again, but there will never come any wherein I 
shall not be 

Yours. 

[Sealed with black wax, and directed] 
For Mr. William Temple, 

at Sir John Temple's home 

in Damask Street, 

Dublin. 

Thus Dorothy leaves Chicksands, her last 
words from her old home to Temple breathing 
her love and affection for him. It is no great 
sorrow at the moment to leave Chicksands, for 



286 Love Letters from Dorothy Osboriie 

its latest memories are scenes of sickness, grief, 
and death. And now the only home on earth 
for Dorothy lies in the future ; it is not a par- 
ticular spot on earth, but to be by his side, 
wherever that may be. 



CHAPTER YI 

VISITING. SUMMER 1654 

This chapter opens with a portion of a letter 
written by Sir William Temple to his mistress, 
dated Ireland, May 18, 1654. It is the only 
letter, or rather scrap of letter which we have of 
his, and by some good chance it has survived 
with the rest of Dorothy's letters. It will, I 
think, throw great light on his character as a 
lover, showing him to have been ardent and 
ecstatic in his suit, making quite clear Dorothy's 
wisdom in insisting, as she often does, on the 
necessity of some more material marriage portion 
than mere love and hope. His reference to the 
" unhappy differences " strengthens my view that 
the letters of the former chapter belong all to 
one date. 

Letter 57. — Letter of Sir "William Temple. 

May 1825A, 1654. 
. . . I am called upon for my letter, but 
must have leave first to remember you of yours. 
For God's sake write constantly while I am here, 
or I am undone past all recovery. I have lived 
upon them ever since I came, but had thrived 
much better had they been longer. Unless you 
287 



288 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

use to give me better measure, I shall not be in 
case to undertake a journey to England. The 
despair I was in at not hearing from you last 
week, and the belief that all my letters had mis- 
carried (by some treachery among my good 
friends who, I am sorry, have the name of 
yours), made me press my father by all means 
imaginable to give me leave to go presently if I 
heard not from you this post. But he would 
never yield to that, because, he said, upon your 
silence he should suspect all was not likely to be 
well between us, and then he was sure I should 
not be in condition to be alone. He remembered 
too well the letters I writ upon our last unhappy 
differences, and would not trust me from him in 
such another occasion. But, withal, he told me 
he would never give me occasion of any discon- 
tent which he could remedy ; that if you desired 
my coming over, and I could not be content 
without, he would not hinder me, though he very 
much desired my company a month or two 
longer, and that in that time 'twas very likely I 
might have his as well. 

Now, in very good earnest, do you think 'tis 
time for me to come or no ? Would you be very 
glad to see me there, and could you do it in less 
disorder, and with less surprise, than you did at 
Chicksands ? 

I ask you these questions very seriously ; but 



Visiting 289 

yet how willingly would I venture all to be with 
you. I know you love me still ; you promised 
me, and that's all the security I can have in this 
world. 'Tis that which makes all things else 
seem nothing to it, so high it sets me; and so 
high, indeed, that should I ever fall 'twould dash 
me all to pieces. Methinks your very charity 
should make you love me more now than ever, 
by seeing me so much more unhappy than I used, 
by being so much farther from you, for that is 
all the measure can be taken of my good or ill 
condition. Justice, I am sure, will oblige you to 
it, since you have no other means left in the 
world of rewarding such a passion as mine, 
which, sure, is of a much richer value than any- 
thing in the world besides. Should you save my 
life again, should you make me absolute master 
of your fortune and your person too, I should ac- 
cept none of all this in any part of payment, but 
look upon you as one behindhand with me still, 
'Tis no vanity this, but a true sense of how pure 
and how refined a nature my passion is, which 
none can ever know except my own heart, unless 
you find it out by being there. 

How hard it is to think of ending when I am 
writing to you ; but it must be so, and I must 
ever be subject to other people's occasions, and 
so never, I think, master of my own. This is 
too true, both in respect of this fellow's post that 



290 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

is bawling at me for my letter, and of my 
father's delays. They kill me ; but patience, — 
Avould anybody but I were here ! Yet you may 
command me ever at one minute's warning. Had 
I not heard from you by this last, in earnest I 
had resolved to have gone with this, and given 
my father the slip for all his caution. He tells 
me still of a little time ; but, alas ! who knows 
not what mischances and how great changes 
have often happened in a little time ? 

For God's sake let me hear of all your mo- 
tions, when and where I may hope to see you. 
Let us but hope this cloud, this absence that has 
overcast all my contentment, may pass away, 
and I am confident there's a clear sky attends us. 

My dearest dear, adieu. 

Yours. 

Pray, where is your lodging ? Have a care of 
all the despatch and security that can be in our in- 
telligence. Remember my fellow-servant ; sure, 
by the next I shall write some learned epistle to 
her, I have been so long about it. 

Letter 58. — Dorothy is now in London, staying 
probably with that aunt whom she mentioned 
before as one who was always ready to find her 
a husband other than Temple. Of the plot 
against the Protector in which my Lord of Dor- 
chester is said to be engaged, an account is given 



Visiting 291 

in connection with Letter 59 ; that is, presuming 
it to be the same plot, and that Lord Dorchester 
is one of the many persons arrested under sus- 
picion of being concerned in it. I cannot find 
anything which identifies him with a special 
plot. 

Lady Sandis [Sandys], who seems so fond of 
race meetings and other less harmless amuse- 
ments, was the wife of William Lord Sandys, and 
daughter of the Earl of Salisbury. Lord Sandys' 
country house was Motesfont or Mottisfont 
Priory, in Hampshire, " which the King had 
given him in exchange for Chelsea, in West- 
minster." So says Leland, the antiquary and 
scholar, in his Itinerary / but it is a little puz- 
zling to the modern mind with preconceived no- 
tions of Chelsea, to hear it spoken of as a seat or 
estate in Westminster. Colonel Tom Paunton is 
to me merely a name ; and J. Morton is nothing 
more, unless we may believe him to be Sir John 
Morton, Bart, of Milbourne, St. Andrew, in Not- 
tinghamshire. This addition of a local habita- 
tion and a name gives us no further knowledge, 
however, of the scandal to which Dorothy 
alludes. 

Mistress Stanley and Mistress Witherington 
have left no trace of their identity that I can 
find, but Mistress Philadelphia Carey is not 
wholly unknown. She was the second daughter 
of Thomas Carey, one of the Earl of Monmouth's 
sons, and readers may be pleased to know that 
she did marry Sir Henry Littleton. 

Of the scandal concerning Lord Kich I am not 
sorry to know nothing. 



292 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

Mm/ ^Uh [1654]. 
This world is composed of nothing but con- 
trarieties and sudden accidents, only the propor- 
tions are not at all equal ; for to a great measure 
of trouble it allows so small a quantity of joy, 
that one may see 'tis merely intended to keep us 
alive withal. This is a formal preface, and looks 
as if there were something of very useful to fol- 
low ; but I would not wish you to expect it. I 
was only considering my own ill-humour last 
night, I had not heard from you in a week or 
more, my brother had been with me and we had 
talked ourselves both out of breath and patience 
too, I was not very well, and rose this morning 
only because I was weary of lying in bed. When 
I had dined I took a coach and went to see 
whether there was ever a letter for me, and was 
this once so lucky as to find one. I am not 
partial to myself I know, and am contented that 
the pleasure I have received with this, shall serve 
to sweeten many sad thoughts that have inter- 
posed since your last, and more that I may 
reasonably expect before I have another ; and I 
think I may (without vanity) say, that nobody is 
more sensible of the least good fortune nor mur- 
murs less at an ill than I do, since I owe it 
merely to custom and not to any constancy in 
my humour, or something that is better. No, in 
earnest, anything of good comes to me like the 



Visiting 293 

sun to the inhabitants of Greenland, it raises 
them to life when they see it, and. when they 
miss it, it is not strange they expect a night of 
half a year long. 

You cannot imagine how kindly I take it that 
you forgive my brother, and let me assure you I 
shall never press you to anything unreasonable. 
I will not oblige you to court a person, that has 
injured you. I only beg that whatsoever he does 
in that kind may be excused by his relation to 
me, and that whenever you are moved to think 
he does you wrong, you will at the same time 
remember that his sister loves you passionately 
and nobly ; that if he values nothing but fortune, 
she despises it, and could love you as much a 
beggar as she could do a prince ; and shall with- 
out question love you eternally, but whether with 
any satisfaction to herself or you is a sad doubt. 
I am not apt to hope, and whether it be the bet- 
ter or the worse I know not. All sorts of differ- 
ences are natural to me, and that which (if your 
kindness would give you leave) you would term 
a weakness in me is nothing but a reasonable dis- 
trust of my own judgment, which makes me de- 
sire the approbation of my friends. I never had 
the confidence in my life to presume anything 
well done that I had nobody's opinion in but my 
own ; and as you very well observe, there are so 
many that think themselves wise when nothing 



294 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

equals their folly but their pride, that I dread 
nothing so much as discovering such a thought in 
myself because of the consequences of it. 

"Whenever you come you must not doubt your 
welcome, but I can promise you nothing for the 
manner on't. I am afraid my surprise and dis- 
order will be more than ever. I have good 
reason to think so, and none that you can take 
ill. But I would not have you attempt it till 
your father is ready for the journey too. No, 
really he deserves that all your occasions should 
wait for his ; and if you have not much more 
than an ordinary obedience for him, I shall never 
believe you have more than an ordinary kindness 
for me ; since (if you will pardon me the com- 
parison) I believe we both merit it from you 
upon the same score, he as a very indulgent 
father, and I as a very kind mistress. Don't 
laugh at me for commending myself, you will 
never do it for me, and so I am forced to it. 

I am still here in town, but had no hand, I can 
assure you, in the new discovered plot against 
the Protector. But my Lord of Dorchester, they 
say, has, and so might I have had if I were as 
rich as he, and then you might have been sure of 
me at the Tower ; — now a worse lodging must 
serve my turn. 'Tis over against Salisbury 
House where I have the honour of seeing my 
Lady M. Sandis every day unless some race or 



Visiting 295 

other carry her out of town. The last week she 
Avent to one as far as Winchester with Col. 
Paunton (if you know such a one), and there 
her husband met her, and because he did so 
(though it 'twere by accident) thought himself 
obliged to invite her to his house but seven miles 
off, and very modestly said no more for it, but 
that he thought it better than an Inn, or at least 
a crowded one as all in the town were now be- 
cause of the race. But she was so good a com- 
panion that she would not forsake her company. 
So he invited them too, but could prevail with 
neither. Only my Lady grew kind at parting 
and said, indeed if Tom Paunton and J. Morton 
and the rest would have gone she could have 
been contented to have taken his offer. Thus 
much for the married people, now for those that 
are towards it. 

There is Mr. Stanley and Mrs. Witherington ; 
Sir H. Littleton and Mrs. Philadelphia Carey, 
who in earnest is a fine woman, such a one as 
will make an excellent wife ; and some say my 
Lord Rich and my Lady Betty Howard, but 
others that pretend to know more say his court 
to her is but to countenance a more serious one 
to Mrs. Howard, her sister-in-law, he not having 
courage to pretend so openly (as some do) to an- 
other's wife. Oh, but your old acquaintance, 
poor Mr. Heningham, has no luck ! He was so 



29G Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

near (as he thought at least) marrying Mrs. Ger- 
herd that anybody might have got his whole es- 
tate in wagers upon't that would have ventured 
but a reasonable proportion of their own. And 
now he looks more like an ass than ever he did. 
She has cast him off most unhandsomely, that's 
the truth on't, and would have tied him to such 
conditions as he might have been her slave 
withal, but could never be her husband. Is not 
this a great deal of news for me that never stir 
abroad ? Nay, I had brought me to-day more 
than all this : that I am marrying myself ! And 
the pleasantness on't is that it should be to my 
Lord St. John. "Would he look on me, think you, 
that had pretty Mrs. Fretcheville ? My comfort 
is, I have not seen him since he was a widower, 
and never spoke to him in my life. I found my- 
self so innocent that I never blushed when they 
told it me. What would I give I could avoid it 
when people speak of you ? In earnest, I do 
prepare myself all that is possible to hear it 
spoken of, yet for my life I cannot hear your 
name without discovering that I am more than 
ordinarily concerned in't. A blush is the foolish- 
est thing that can be, and betrays one more than 
a red nose does a drunkard ; and yet I would not 
so wholly have lost them as some women that I 
know has, as much injury as they do me. 

I can assure you now that I shall be here a 



Visiting 297 

fortnight longer (they tell me no lodger, upon 
pain of his Highness's displeasure, must remove 
sooner) ; but when I have his leave I go into 
Suffolk for a month, and then come hither again 
to go into Kent, where I intend to bury myself 
alive again as I did in Bedfordshire, unless you 
call me out and tell me I may be happy. Alas I 
how fain I would hope it, but I cannot, and 
should it ever happen, 'twould be long before I 
should believe 'twas meant for me in earnest, or 
that 'twas other than a dream. To say truth, I 
do not love to think on't, I find so many things 
to fear and so few to hope. 

'Tis better telling you that I will send my let- 
ters where you direct, that they shall be as long 
ones as possibly my time will permit, and when 
at any time you miss of one, I give you leave to 
imagine as many kind things as you please, and 
to believe I mean them all to you. 
Farewell. 



Letter 59. — It is a little astonishing to read, as 
one does in this and the last letter, of race meet- 
ings, and Dorothy, habited in a mask, disporting 
herself at New Spring Gardens or in the Park. 
It opens one's eyes to the exaggerated gloom 
that has been thrown over England during the 
Puritan reign by those historians who have de- 
rived their information solely from State papers 
and proclamations. It is one thin^ to proclainq, 



298 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

amusements, another to abolish them. The first 
was undoubtedly done, but we doubt if there was 
ever any long-continued effort to do the last ; 
and in the latter part of Cromwell's reign the 
gloom, and the strait-laced regulations that 
caused it, must have almost entirely disap- 
peared. 

Spring Gardens seems at one time to have had 
no very good reputation. Lady Alice Halkett, 
writing in 1644, tells us that " so scrupulous was 
I of giving any occasion to speak of me as I know 
they did of others, that though I loved well to 
see plays, and to walk in the Spring Gardens 
sometimes (before it grew something scandalous 
by the abuses of some), yet I cannot remember 
three times that ever I went with any man be- 
sides my brother." However, fashions change 
in ten years, and Spring Gardens is, doubtless, 
now quite demure and respectable, or we should 
not find Dorothy there. Spring Gardens was 
enclosed and laid out towards the end of the 
reign of James I. The clump of houses which 
still bears its name is supposed to indicate its 
position with tolerable exactness. Evelyn tells 
us that CromAvell shut up the Spring Gardens in 
1600, and Knight thinks they were closed until 
the Kestoration, in which small matter we may 
allow Dorothy to correct him. The fact of the 
old gardens having been closed may account for 
Dorothy referring to the place as " New Spring 
Gardens." Knight also quotes at second hand 
from an account of Spring Gardens, complaining 
that the author is unknown to him. This quota- 
tion is, however, from one of Somers' Tracts en- 



Visiting 299 

titled " A Character of England as it was lately 
represented in a Letter to a Nobleman of France, 
1659." The Frenchman by whom the letter is 
written — probably an English satirist in disguise 
— gives us such a graphic account of the Parks 
before the Restoration, that as the matter is fresh 
and bears upon the subject, I have no hesitation 
in quoting it at length : — 

" I did frequently in the spring accompany my 
Lord N. into a field near the town which they 
call Hyde Park, — the place not unpleasant, and 
which they use as our ' Co'ttrse, but with nothing 
that order, equipage, and splendour ; being such 
an assembly of wretched jades and hackney 
coaches, as, next to a regiment of car-men, there 
is nothing approaches the resemblance. The 
Park was, it seems, used by the late King and 
nobility for the freshness of the air and the 
goodly prospect, but it is that which now (be- 
sides all other exercises) they pay for here in 
England, though it be free in all the world be- 
side ; every coach and horse which enters buying 
his mouthful and permission of the publican who 
has purchased it, for which the entrance is 
guarded with porters and long staves. 

" The manner is, as the company returns, to 
stop at the Spring Gardens so called, in order to 
the Park as our Thnilleries is to the Course^ the 
inclosure not disagreeable for the solemnness of 
the groves, the warbling of the birds, and as it 
opens into the spacious walks of St. James. 
But the compan}^ walk in it at such a rate as you 
would think all the ladies were so many Atalan- 
tas contending with their wooers, and, my Lord, 



800 Love Letters from l)orothy Ostorhe 

there was no appearance that I should prove the 
Hippomenes, who could with very much ado 
keep pace with them. But, as fast as they run, 
they stay there so long, as if they wanted not to 
linish the race, for it is usual here to find some 
of the young company till midnight, and the 
thickets of the garden seem to be contrived to 
all the advantages of gallantry after they have 
refreshed with the collation, which is here sel- 
dom omitted, at a certain cabaret in the middle 
of this paradise, where the forbidden fruits are 
certain trifling tarts, neats' tongues, salacious 
meats, and bad Rhenish, for which the gallants 
pay sauce, as indeed they do at all such houses 
throughout England ; for they think it a piece 
of frugality beneath them to bargain or account 
for what they eat in any place, however unrea- 
sonably imposed upon." 

Dorothy is quite right in her correction con- 
cerning Will Spencer. He was the first Earl of 
Sunderland, and married Elizabeth, daughter of 
Lord Gerard. 

June the 6th, 1654. 

I SEE you know how to punish me. In ear- 
nest, I was so frightened with your short letter 
as you cannot imagine, and as much troubled at 
the cause on't. What is it your father ails, and 
how long has he been ill ? If my prayers are 
heard, he will not be so long. Why do you say 
I failed you? Indeed, I did not. Jane is my 
witness. She carried my letter to the White 



Visiting 30l 

Hart, by St. James's, and 'twas a very long one 
too. I carried one thither since, myself, and the 
woman of the house was so very angry, because 
I desired her to have a care on't, that I made the 
coachman drive away with all possible speed, 
lest she should have beaten me. To say truth, I 
pressed her too much, considering how little the 
letter deserved it. 'Twas writ in such disorder, 
the company prating about me, and some of them 
so bent on doing me little mischiefs, that I know 
not what I did, and believe it was the most 
senseless, disjointed thing that ever was read. 

I remember now that I writ Robin Spencer in- 
stead of Will. 'Tis he that has married Mrs. 
Gerherd, and I admire their courage. She will 
have eight hundred pounds a year, 'tis true, after 
her mother's death ; but how they will live till 
then I cannot imagine. I shall be even with you 
for your short letter. I'll swear they will not 
allow me time for anything, and to show how 
absolutely I am governed I need but tell you that 
I am every night in the Park and at New Spring 
Gardens, where, though I come with a mask, I 
cannot escape being known, nor my conversion 
being admired. Are you not in some fear what 
will become on me ? These are dangerous 
courses. I do not find, though, that they have 
altered me yet. I am much the same person at 
heart I was in being Yours. 



So 2 Love Letters frovn Dorothy Osborne 

Letter 60. 

June \ZtK [1654]. 

You have satisfied me very much with this 
last long letter, and made some amends for the 
short one I received before. I am convinced, 
too, happiness is much such a kind of thing as 
you describe, or rather such a nothing. For 
there is no one thing can properly be called so, 
but every one is left to create it to themselves in 
something which they either have or would have ; 
and so far it's well enough. But I do not like 
that one's happiness should depend upon a per- 
suasion that this is happiness, because nobody 
knows how long they shall continue in a belief 
built upon no grounds, only to bring it to what 
you say, and to make it absolutely of the same 
nature with faith. We must conclude that no- 
body can either create or continue such a belief 
in themselves ; but where it is there is happiness. 
And for my part at this present, I verily believe 
I could find it in the long walk at Dublin. 

You say nothing of your father's sickness, there- 
fore I hope he is well again ; for though I have 
a quarrel to him, it does not extend so far as to 
wish him ill. But he made no good return for 
the counsel I gave you, to say that there might 
come a time when my kindness might fail. Do 
not believe him, I charge you, unless you doubt 
yourself that you may give me occasion to 



Visiting 303 

change ; and when he tells you so again, engage 
what you please upon't, and put it upon my ac- 
count. I shall go out of town this week, and so 
cannot possibly get a picture drawn for you till 
I come up again, which will be within these six 
weeks, but not to make any stay at all. I should 
be glad to find you here then. I would have had 
one drawn since I came, and consulted my glass 
every morning when to begin ; and to speak 
freely to you that are ray friend, I could never 
find my face in a condition to admit on't, and 
when I was not satisfied with it myself, I had no 
reason to hope that anybody else should. But I 
am afraid, as you say, that time will not mend 
it, and therefore you shall have it as it is as soon 
as Mr. Cooper will vouchsafe to take the pains to 
draw it for you. 

I am in great trouble to think how I shall 
write out of Suffolk to you, or receive yours. 
However, do not fail to write, though they lie 
awhile. I shall have them at last, and they will 
not be the less welcome ; and, though you should 
miss of some of mine, let it not trouble you ; but 
if it be by my fault, I'll give you leave to de- 
mand satisfaction for it when you come. Jane 
kisses your hands, and says she will be ready in 
all places to do you service ; but I'll prevent 
her, now you have put me into a jealous humour. 
I'll keep her in chains before she shall quit scores 



304 Love Letters from t)orotKy Osborne 

with me. Do not believe, sir, I beseech you, that 
the young heirs are for you ; content yourself 
with your old mistress. You are not so hand- 
some as Will Spencer, nor I have not so much 
courage nor wealth as his mistress, nor she has 
not so much as her aunt says by all the money. 
I shall not have called her his mistress now they 
have been married almost this fortnight. 

I'll write again before I leave the town, and 
should have writ more now, but company is come 
in. Adieu, my dearest. 

Letter 61. — Lady Talmash was the eldest 
daughter of Mr. Murray, Charles I.'s page and 
whipping boy. She married Sir Lionel Talmash 
of Suffolk, a gentleman of noble family. After 
her father's death, she took the title of Countess 
of Dysart, although there was some dispute about 
the right of her father to any title. Bishop Bur- 
net says : " She was a woman of great beauty, 
but of far greater parts. She had a Avonderful 
quickness of apprehension, and an amazing vivac- 
ity in conversation. She had studied not only 
divinity and history, but mathematics and phi- 
losophy. She was violent in everything she set 
about, — a violent friend, but a much more violent 
enemy. She had a restless ambition, lived at a 
vast expense, and was ravenously covetous ; and 
would have stuck at nothing by which she might 
compass her ends. She had been early in a cor- 
respondence with Lord Lauderdale, that had 
given occasion to censure. "When he was a 



Visiting 305 

prisoner after "Worcester fight, she made him 
believe he was in great danger of his life, and 
that she saved it by her intrigues with Cromwell, 
which was not a little taken notice of. Cromwell 
was certainly fond of her, and she took care to 
entertain him in it ; till he, finding what was 
said upon it, broke it off. Upon the King's 
Restoration she thought that Lord Lauderdale 
made not those returns she expected. They 
lived for some years at a distance. But upon 
her husband's death she made up all quarrels ; so 
that Lord Lauderdale and she lived so much 
together that his Lady was offended at it and 
went to Paris, where she died about three years 
after." This was in 1672, and soon afterwards 
Lady Dysart and Lord Lauderdale were married. 
She had great power over him, and employed it 
in trafficking with such State patronage as was 
in Lord Lauderdale's power to bestow. 

Cousin Hammond, who was going to take 
Ludlow's place in Ireland, would be the Colonel 
Robert Hammond who commanded Carisbrooke 
when the King was imprisoned there. He was 
one of a new council formed in August and sent 
into Ireland about the end of that month. 

Lady Vavasour was Ursula, daughter of Walter 
Gifford of Chillington, Staffordshire. Her hus- 
band was Sir Thomas Vavasour, Bart. The 
Vavasours were a Roman Catholic family, and 
claimed descent from those who held the ancient 
office of King's Valvasour; and we need not 
therefore be surprised to find Lady Vavasour 
engaged in one of the numerous plots that sur- 
rounded and endangered the Protector's power. 



S06 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

The plot itself seems to have created intense 
excitement in the capital, and resulted in three 
persons being tried for high treason, and two exe- 
cuted, — John Gerard, gentleman, Peter Vowel, 
schoolmaster of Islington, and one Summerset 
Fox, who pleaded guilty, and whose life was 
spared. " Some wise men," writes one Thomas 
Gower in a contemporary letter (still unprinted), 
" believe that a couple of coy -ducks drew in the 
rest, then revealed all, and were employed to 
that purpose that the execution of a few mean 
persons might deter wiser and more considerable 
persons." This seems not improbable. On June 
6th the official Mercurins Politicus speaks of 
this plot as follows : — " The traitorous conspiracy 
mentioned heretofore it appears every day more 
desperate and bloody. It is discovered that 
their design was to have destroyed his High- 
ness's person, and all others at the helm of Gov- 
ernment that they could have laid hands on. 
Immediately upon the villainous assassination, 
they intended to have proclaimed Charles Stuart 
by the assistance of a tumult," etc. etc. This 
with constant accounts of further arrests troubles 
the public mind at this time. 

The passage of Cowley which Dorothy refers 
to is in the second book of Cowley's Davideis. 
It opens with a description of the friendship be- 
tween David and Jonathan, and, upon that occa- 
sion, a digression concerning the nature of love. 
The poem was written by Cowley when a young 
man at Cambridge. One can picture Dorothy 
reading and musing over lines like these with 
sympathy and admiration : 



Visiting 307 

What art thou, love, thou great mysterious thing? 
From what hid stock does thy strange nature spring? 
'Tis thou that mov'st the world through ev'ry part, 
And hold'st the vast frame close that nothing start 
From the due place and office first ordained, 
By thee were all things made and are sustained. 
Sometimes we see thee fully and can say 
From hence thou took'st thy rise and went'st that way, 
But oft'ner the short beams of reason's eye 
See only there thou art, not how, nor why. 

His lines on love, though overcharged with 
quaint conceits, are often noble and true, and 
end at least with one fine couplet : 

Thus dost thou sit (like men e'er sin had framed 
A guilty blush), naked but not ashamed. 

I PROMISED in my last to write again before I 
went out of town, and now I'll be as good as ray 
word. They are all gone this morning, and have 
left me much more at liberty than I have been 
of late, therefore I believe this will be a long 
letter ; perhaps too long, at least if my letters 
are as little entertaining as my company is. I 
was carried yesterday abroad to a dinner that 
was designed for mirth, but it seems one ill-hu- 
moured person in the company is enough to put 
all the rest out of tune ; for I never saw people 
perform what they intended worse, and could 
not forbear telling them so : but to excuse them- 
selves and silence my reproaches, they all agreed 
to say that I spoiled their jollity by wearing the 
most unreasonable looks that could be put on for 



308 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

such an occasion. I told them I knew no remedy 
but leaving me behind next time, and could have 
told them that my looks were suitable to my 
fortune, though not to a feast. Fye ! I am got 
into my complaining humour that tires myself 
as well as everybody else, and which (as you ob- 
serve) helps not at all. Would it would leave 
me, and then I could believe I shall not always 
have occasion for it. But that's in nobody's 
power, and my Lady Talmash, that says she can 
do whatsoever she will, cannot believe whatsoever 
she pleases. 'Tis not unpleasant, methinks, to 
hear her talk, how at such a time she was sick 
and the physicians told her she would have the 
small-pox, and showed her where they were com- 
ing out upon her ; but she bethought herself that 
it was not at all convenient for her to have them 
at that time ; some business she had that re- 
quired her going abroad, and so she resolved she 
would not be sick ; nor was not. Twenty such 
stories as these she tells ; and then falls into dis- 
coveries of strength of reason and the power of 
philosophy, till she confounds herself and all that 
hear her. You have no such ladies in Ireland ? 

Oh me, but I heard to-day your cousin Ham- 
mond is going thither to be in Ludlow's place. 
Is it true ? You tell me nothing what is done 
there, but 'tis no matter. The less one knows of 
State affciiirs I find it is the better. My poor 



Visiting 309 

Lady Vavasour is carried to the Tower, and her 
great belly could not excuse her, because she 
was acquainted by somebody that there was a 
plot against the Protector, and did not discover 
it. She has told now all that was told her, but 
vows she will never say from whence she had it : 
we shall see whether her resolutions are as un- 
alterable as those of my Lady Talmash. I won- 
der how she behaved herself when she was 
married. I never saw any one yet that did not 
look simply and out of countenance, nor ever 
knew a wedding well designed but one ; and that 
was of two persons who had time enough I con- 
fess to contrive it, and nobody to please in't but 
themselves. He came down into the country 
where she Avas upon a visit, and one morning 
married her. As soon as they came out of the 
church they took coach and came for the town, 
dined at an inn by the way, and at night came 
into lodgings that were provided for them where 
nobody knew them, and where they passed for 
married people of seven years' standing. 

The truth is I could not endure to be Mrs. 
Bride in a public wedding, to be made the hap- 
piest person on earth. Do not take it ill, for I 
would endure it if I could, rather than fail ; but 
in earnest I do not think it were possible for me. 
You cannot apprehend the formalities of a treaty 
more than I do, nor so much the success on't. 



310 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

Yet in earnest, your father will not find my 
brother Peyton wanting in civility (though he is 
not a man of much compliment, unless it be in 
his letters to me), nor an unreasonable person in 
anything, so he will allow him out of his kind- 
ness to his wife to set a higher value upon her 
sister than she deserves. I know not how he 
may be prejudiced as to the business, but he is 
not deaf to reason Avhen 'tis civilly delivered, and 
is as easily gained with compliance and good 
usage as anybody I know, but by no other way. 
When he is roughly dealt with, he is like me, ten 
times the worse for't. 

I make it a case of conscience to discover my 
faults to you as fast as I know them, that you 
may consider what you have to do. My aunt 
told me no longer agone than yesterday that I 
was the most wilful woman that ever she knew, 
and had an obstinacy of spirit nothing could 
overcome. Take heed ! you see I give you fair 
warning. 

I have missed a letter this Monday : What is 
the reason ? By the next, I shall be gone into 
Kent, and my other journey is laid aside, which 
I am not displeased at, because it would have 
broken our intercourse very much. 

Here are some verses of Cowley's. Tell me 
how you like them. 'Tis only a piece taken out 
of a new thing of his ; the wl^ole is very long, 



Visiting 311 

and is a description of, or rather a paraphrase 
upon the friendship of David and Jonathan. 
'Tis, I think, the best I have seen of his, and I 
like the subject because 'tis that I would be per- 
fect in. Adieu. 

Je suis vosfre. 

Letter 62. 

June the 26j5A [1654]. 
I TOLD you in my last that my Suffolk journey 
was laid aside, and that into Kent hastened. I 
am beginning it to-day ; and have chosen to go 
as far as Gravesend by water, though it be very 
gloomy weather. If I drown by the way, this 
will be my last letter ; and, like a will, I bequeath 
all my kindness to you in it, with a charge never 
to bestow it all upon another mistress, lest my 
ghost rise again and haunt you. I am in such 
haste that I can say little else to you now. 
When you are come over, we'l' think where to 
meet, for at this distance I can design nothing ; 
only I should be as little pleased with the con- 
straint of my brother's house as you. Pray let 
me know whether your man leaves you, and how 
you stand inclined to him I offer you. Indeed, I 
like him extremely, and he is commended to me, 
by people that know him very well and are able 
to judge, for a most excellent servant, and faith- 



312 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

ful as possible. I'll keep him unengaged till I 
hear from you. Adieu, 

My next shall make amends for this short one. 

\_P.S.'] — I received your last of June 22nd since 
I sealed up my letter, and I durst not but make 
an excuse for another short one, after you have 
chid me so for those you have received already ; 
indeed, I could not help it, nor cannot now, but if 
that will satisfy I can assure you I shall make a 
much better wife than I do a husband, if I ever 
am one. Pardon, mon Cher Cmur^ on m^ attend. 
Adieu, inon Ame. Je vous souhait tout ce que 
vous desire. 

Letter 63. 

Jtdy the Uh [1654]. 
Because you find fault with my other letters, 
this is like to be shorter than they ; I did not 
intend it so though, I can assure you. But last 
night my brother told me he did not send his till 
ten o'clock this morning, and now he calls for 
mine at seven, before I am up ; and I can only 
be allowed time to tell you that I am in Kent, 
and in a house so strangely crowded with 
company that I am weary as a dog already, 
though I have been here but three or four days ; 
that all their mirth has not mended my humour, 
and that I am here the same I was in other 
places ; that I hope, merely because you bid me. 



Visiting 313 

and lose that hope as often as I consider anything 
but yours. Would I were easy of belief ! they 
say one is so to all that one desires. I do not 
find it, though I am told I was so extremely 
when I believed you loved me. That I would 
not find, and you have only power to make me 
think it. But I am called upon. How fain I 
would say more ; yet 'tis all but the saying with 
more circumstance than I am 

Yours. 
[Directed.] For your master. 

Letter 64. 

I SEE you can chide when you please, and with 
authority ; but I deserve it, I confess, and all I 
can say for myself is, that my fault proceeded 
from a very good principle in me. I am apt to 
speak what I think ; and to you have so accus- 
tomed myself to discover all my heart that I do 
not believe it will ever be in my power to con- 
ceal a thought from you. Therefore I am afraid 
you must resolve to be vexed with all my sense- 
less apprehensions as my brother Peyton is with 
some of his wife's, who is thought a very good 
woman, but the most troublesome one in a coach 
that ever was. We dare not let our tongues lie 
more on one side of our mouths than t'other for 
fear of overturning it. You are satisfied, I hope, 
ere this that I 'scaped drowning. However, 'tis 



314 Love Letters from Dorothy Osboi'ne 

not amiss that my will made you know now how 
to dispose of all my wealth whensoever I die. 
But I am troubled much you should make so ill 
a journey to so little purpose ; indeed, I writ by 
the first post after my arrival here, and cannot 
imagine how you came to miss of my letters. Is 
your father returned yet, and do you think of 
coming over immediately ? How welcome you 
will be. But, alas ! I cannot talk on't at the 
rate that you do. I am sensible that such an ab- 
sence is misfortune enough, but I dare not prom- 
ise myself that it will conclude ours ; and 'tis 
more my belief that you yourself speak it rather 
to encourage me, and to your wishes than your 
hopes. 

My humour is so ill at present, that I dare say 
no more lest you chide me again. I find myself 
fit for nothing but to converse with a lady below, 
that is fallen out with all the world because her 
husband and she cannot agree. 'Tis the pleas- 
antest thing that can be to hear us discourse. 
She takes great pains to dissuade me from ever 
marrying, and says I am the veriest fool that 
ever lived if I do not take her counsel. Now we 
do not absolutely agree in that point, but I 
promise her never to marry unless I can find 
such a husband as I describe to her, and she be- 
lieves is never to be found ; so that, upon the 
matter, we differ very little. "Whensoever she is 



Visiting 315 

accused of maintaining opinions very destructive 
of society, and absolutely prejudicial to all the 
young people of both sexes that live in the house, 
she calls out me to be her second, and by it has 
lost me the favour of all our young gallants, who 
have got a custom of expressing anything that is 
nowhere but in fiction by the name of " Mrs. 

O 's husband," For my life I cannot beat 

into their heads a passion that must be subject to 
no decay, an even perfect kindness that must last 
perpetually, without the least intermission. 
They laugh to hear me say that one unkind 
word would destroy all the satisfaction of my life, 
and that I should expect our kindness should in- 
crease every day, if it were possible, but never 
lessen. All this is perfect nonsense in their opin- 
ion ; but I should not doubt the convincing them 
if I could hope to be so happy as to be 

Yours. 

Letter 65. — Of William Lilly, a noted and ex- 
traordinary character of that day, the following 
account is taken from his own Life and Times, 
a lively book, full of amusing lies and astrological 
gossip, in which the author describes himself as 
a student of the Black Art. He was born in 
1602 at Diseworth, an obscure town in the north 
of Leicestershire. His family appear to have 
been yeomen in this town for many generations. 
Passing over the measles of his infancy, and 
other trivial details of childhood, which he de- 



316 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

scribes minutely, we find him as a boy at Ashby- 
de-la-Zouche, where be is the pupil of one Mr. 
John Brinsley. Here he learned Latin and 
Greek, and began to study Hebrew. In the 
sixteenth year of his age he was greatly troubled 
with dreams concerning his damnation or salva- 
tion ; and at the age of eighteen he returned to 
his father's house, and there kept a school in 
great penury. He then appears to have come up 
to London, leaving his father in a debtor's prison, 
and proceeded in pursuit of fortune with a new 
suit of clothes and seven shillings and sixpence 
in his pocket. In London he entered the service 
of one Gilbert Wright, an independent citizen of 
small means and smaller education. To him 
Lilly was both man-servant and secretary. The 
second Mrs. Wright seems to have had a taste 
for astrology, and consulted some of the quacks 
who then preyed on the silly women of the city. 
She was very fond of young Lilly, who attended 
her in her last illness, and, in return for his care 
and attention, she bequeathed to him several 
" sigils " or talismanic seals. Probably it was 
the foolishness of this poor woman that first sug- 
gested to Lilly the advantages to be gained from 
the profession of astrology. Mr. Wright married 
a third wife, and soon afterwards died, leaving 
his widow comfortably off. She fell in love with 
Lilly, who married her in 1627, and for five 
years, until her death, they lived happily to- 
gether. Lilly was now a man of means, and 
was enabled to study that science which he after- 
wards practised with so much success. There 
were a good many professors of the black art at 



Visiting 317 

this date, and Lilly studied under one Evans, a 
scoundrelly ex-parson from Wales, until, accord- 
ing to Lilly's own account, he discovered Evans 
to be the cheat he undoubtedly was. . Lilly, when 
he set up for himself, wrote many astrological 
works, which seem to have been very successful. 
He was known and visited by all the great men 
of the day, and probably had brains enough only 
to prophesy when he knew. His description of 
his political creed is beautifully characteristic of 
the man : " I was more Cavalier than Round- 
head, and so taken notice of ; but afterwards I 
engaged body and soul in the cause of the Par- 
liament, but still with much affection to his 
Majesty's person and unto Monarchy, which I 
ever loved and approved beyond any government 
whatsoever." Lilly was, in a word, a self-seek- 
ing but successful knave. People who had been 
robbed, women in love, men in debt, all in trou- 
ble and doubt, from the King downwards, sought 
his aid. He pretended to be a man of science, 
not a man gifted with supernatural powers. 
Whether he succeeded in believing in astrology 
and deceiving himself, it is impossible to say ; he 
was probably too clever for that, but he deceived 
others admirably, and was one of the noted and 
most successful of the old astrologers. 



How long this letter will be I cannot tell. 
You shall have all the time that is allowed me, 
but upon condition that you shall not examine 
the sense on't too strictly, for you must know 
I want sleep extremely. The sun was up an. 



318 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

hour before I went to bed to-day, and this is not 
the first time I have done this since I came 
hither. 'Twill not be for your advantage that I 
should stay here long ; for, in earnest, I shall be 
good for nothing if I do. We go abroad all day 
and play all night, and say our prayers when we 
have time. "Well, in sober earnest now, I would 
not live thus a twelvemonth to gain all that the 
King has lost, unless it were to give it him again. 
'Tis a miracle to me how my brother endures it. 
'Tis as contrary to his humour as darkness is to 
light, and only shows the power he lets his wife 
have over him. Will you be so good-natured ? 
He has certainly as great a kindness for her as 
can be, and, to say truth, not without reason ; 
but all the people that ever I saw, I do not like 
his carriage towards her. He is perpetually 
wrangling and finding fault, and to a person 
that did not know him would appear the worst 
husband and the most imperious in the world. 
He is so amongst his children too, though he 
loves them passionately. He has one son, and 
'tis the finest boy that e'er you saw, and has a 
noble spirit, but yet stands in that awe of his 
father that one word from him is as much as 
twenty whippings. 

You must give me leave to entertain you thus 
with discourses of the family, for I can tell you 
nothing else from hence. Yet, now I remember, 



Visiting 319 

I have another story for you. You little think 
I have been with Lilly, and, in earnest, I was, 
the day before I came out of town ; and what 
do you think I went for ? Not to know when 
you would come home, I can assure you, nor for 
any other occasion of my own ; but with a cousin 
of mine that had long designed to make herself 
sport with him, and did not miss of her aim. I 
confess I always thought him an impostor, but I 
could never have imagined him so simple a one 
as we found him. In my life I never heard so 
ridiculous a discourse as he made us, and no old 
woman who passes for a witch could have been 
more puzzled to seek what to say to reasonable 
people than he was. He asked us more questions 
than we did him, and caught at everything we 
said without discerning that we abused him and 
said things purposely to confound him ; which 
we did so perfectly that we made him contradict 
himself the strangest that ever you saw. Ever 
since this adventure, I have had so great a belief 
in all things of this nature, that I could not for- 
bear laying a peas-cod with nine peas in't under 
my door yesterday, and was informed by it that 
my husband's name should be Thomas. How do 
you like that ? But what Thomas, I cannot 
imagine, for all the servants I have got since I 
came hither I know none of that name. 

Here is a new song, — I do not send it to you 



320 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

but to your sister ; the tune is not worth the 
sending so far. If she pleases to put any to it, I 
am sure it will be a better than it has here. 
Adieu. 

Letter 66. — " The Lost Lady " is a tragi-comedy 
by Sir William Berkely, and is advertised to be 
sold at the shop of the Holy Lamb in the year 
1639, which we may take as the probable date of 
its publication. Dorothy would play Hermione, 
the heroine. We can imagine her speaking with 
sympathetic accent lines such as these : 

With what harsh fate does Heaven afflict me 
That all the blessings which make others happy, 
Must be my ruin ? 

The five Portugals to whom Dorothy refers as 
being hanged were the Portuguese ambassador's 
brother, Don Pantaleon Sa, and four of his men. 
The Mercurius PoUticus of November 1653 
gives the following account of the matters that 
led to the execution ; and as it is illustrative of 
the manners of the day, the account is here 
quoted at length : — 

" New Exchange in the Strand. Novem- 
ber 21. — In the evening there happened a quarrel 
between the Portugal ambassador's brother and 
two or three others of that nation with one Mr. 
Gerard, an English gentleman, whom they all 
fell upon ; but he being rescued out of their 
hands by one Mr. Anstruther, they retired home, 
and within an hour after returned with about 
twelve more of their nation, armed with breast- 
plates and headpieces ; but after two or three 



Visiting S21 

hours taken there, not finding Anstruther, they 
went home again for that night. 

''''November 22. — At night the ambassador's 
brother and the rest returned again, and walking 
the upper Exchange, they met with one Coh 
Mayo, who, being a proper man, they supposed 
him to have been the same Anstruther that re- 
pelled them the night before ; and so shooting 
off a pistol (which was as the watchword), the 
rest of the Portugals (supposed about fifty) came 
in with drawn swords, and leaving a sufficient 
number to keep the stairs, the rest went up with 
the ambassador's brother, and there they fell 
upon Col. Mayo, who, very gallantly defending 
himself, received seven dangerous wounds, and 
lies in a mortal condition. They fell also upon 
one Mr. Greenway, of Lincoln's Inn, as he was 
walking with his sister in one hand and his mis- 
tress in the other (to whom, as I am informed, 
he was to have been married on Tuesday next), 
and pistoled him in the head, whereof he died 
immediately. They brought with them several 
earthen jars stuffed with gunpowder, stopped 
with wax, and fitted with matches, intending, it 
seems, to have done some mischief to the Ex- 
change that they might complete their revenge, 
but they were prevented." 

There is an account of their trial in the State 
Trials^ of some interest to lawyers ; it resulted 
in the execution of Don Pantaleon Sa and four 
of his servants. By one of those curious fateful 
coincidences, with which fact often outbids 
fiction, Mr. Gerard, who was the first English- 
man attacked by the Portuguese, suffers on the 



322 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

same scaffold as his would-be murderers, his 
offence being high treason. Vowel, the other 
plotter, is also executed, but the third saves him- 
self, as we know, by confession. 

July 'iOth [1654 in pencil]. 
I AM very sorry I spoke too late, for I am con- 
fident this was an excellent servant. He was in 
the same house where I lay, and I had taken a 
great fancy to him, upon what was told me of 
him and what I saw. The poor fellow, too, was 
so pleased that I undertook to inquire out a place 
for him, that, though mine was, as I told him, 
uncertain, yet upon the bare hopes on't he re- 
fused two or three good conditions ; but I shall 
set him now at liberty, and not think at all the 
worse of him for his good-nature. Sure you go a 
little too far in your condemnation on't. I know 
it may be abused, as the best things are most 
subject to be, but in itself 'tis so absolutely nec- 
essary that where it is wanting nothing can 
recompense the miss on't. The most contempti- 
ble person in the world, if he has that, cannot be 
justly hated, and the most considerable without 
it cannot deserve to be loved. Would to God I 
had all that good-nature you complain you have 
too much of, I could find ways enough to dispose 
on't amongst myself and my friends ; but 'tis 
well where it is, and I should sooner wish you 
more on't than less. 



Visiting 323 

I wonder with what confidence you can com- 
plain of my short letters that are so guilty your- 
self in the same kind. I have not seen a letter 
this month which has been above half a sheet. 
Never trust me if I write more than you that 
live in a desolated country where you might 
finish a romance of ten tomes before anybody in- 
terrupted you — I that live in a house the most 
filled of any since the Ark, and where, I can as- 
sure [you], one has hardly time for the most nec- 
essary occasions. Well, there was never any one 
thing so much desired and apprehended at the 
same time as your return is by me ; it will cer- 
tainly, I think, conclude me a very happy or a 
most unfortunate person. Sometimes, methinks, 
I would fain know my doom whatever it be ; and 
at others, I dread it so extremely, that I am con- 
fident the five Portugals and the three plotters 
which were t'other day condemned by the High 
Court of Justice had not half my fears upon 
them. I leave you to judge the constraint I live 
in, what alarms my thoughts give me, and yet 
how unconcerned this company requires I should 
be; they will have me at my part in a play, 
"The Lost Lady" it is, and I am she. Pray 
God it be not an ill omen ! 

I shall lose my eyes and you this letter if I 
make it longer. Farewell. 

I am, yours. 



324 Love Letters from Dorothy Osboi'ne 

Letter 67. — Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, was 
the daughter of James I. She married the Elec- 
tor Frederick, who was driven from his throne 
owing to his own misconduct and folly, when his 
wife was forced to return and live as a pensioner 
in her native country. She is said to have been 
gifted in a superlative degree with all that is 
considered most lovely in a woman's character. 
On her husband's death in 1632 she went to live 
at the Hague, where she remained until the Res- 
toration. There is a report that she married 
William, Earl of Craven, but there is no proof of 
this. He was, however, her friend and adviser 
through her years of widowhood, and it was to 
his house in Drury Lane that she returned to live 
in 1661. She is said to have been a lover of 
literature, and Francis Quarles and Sir Henry 
Wotton were her intimate friends. The latter 
has written some quaint and elegant verses to 
his mistress ; the last verse, in which he apos- 
trophizes her as the sun, is peculiarly graceful. 
It runs thus : 

You meaner beauties of the night, 
That poorly satisfy our eyes, 

More by your number than your light, — 
You common people of the skies, 
What are you when the sun shall rise? 

But the sun is set, and the beautiful Queen's sad, 
romantic story almost forgotten. 

Sir John Grenvile was a son of the valiant and 
loyal cavalier, Sir Bevil Grenvile, of Kelkhamp- 
ton, Cornwall. He served the King successfully 
in the west of England, and was dangerously 
wounded at IS^ewbury. He was entrusted by 



Yisitiiig 325 

Charles II. to negotiate with General Monk. 
Monk's brother was vicar of Kelkhamptom, so 
that Grenvile and Monk would in all probability- 
be well acquainted before the time of the negotia- 
tion. We may remember, too, that Dorothy's 
younger brother was on intimate terms with Gen- 
eral Monk's relations in Cornwall. 

There must be letters missing here, for Ave can- 
not believe more than a month passed without 
Dorothy writing a single letter. 



I WONDER you did not come before your last 
letter. 'Twas dated the 24th of August, but I 
received it not till the 1st of September. Would 
to God your journey were over ! Every little 
storm of wind frights me so, that I pass here for 
the greatest coward that ever was born, though, 
in earnest, I think I am as little so as most 
women, yet I may be deceived, too, for now I re- 
member me you have often told me I was one, 
and, sure, you know what kind of heart mine is 
better than anybody else. 

I am glad you are pleased with that description 
I made you of my humour, for, though you had 
disliked it, I am afraid 'tis past my power to help. 
You need not make excuses neither for yours ; 
no other would please me half so well. That 
gaiety which you say is only esteemed would be 
insupportable to me, and I can as little endure a 
tongue th£\,t's always in motion as I could the 



326 Love Letters from Dm'othy Oshorne 

click of a mill. Of all the company this place is 
stored with, there is but two persons whose con- 
versation is at all easy ; one is my eldest niece, 
who, sure, was sent into the world to show 'tis 
possible for a woman to be silent ; the other, a 
gentleman whose mistress died just when they 
should have married ; and though 'tis many years 
since, one may read it in his face still. His hu- 
mour was very good, I believe, before that acci- 
dent, for he will yet say things pleasant enough, 
but 'tis so seldom that he speaks at all, and when 
he does 'tis with so sober a look, that one may see 
he is not moved at all himself when he diverts 
the company most. You will not be jealous 
though I say I like him very much. If you were 
not secure in me, you might be so in him. He 
would expect his mistress should rise again to re- 
proach his inconstancy if he made court to any- 
thing but her memory. Methinks we three (that 
is, my niece, and he and I) do become this house 
the worst that can be, unless I should take into 
the number my brother Peyton himself too ; for 
to say truth his, for another sort of melancholy, 
is not less than ours. What can you imagine we 
did this last week, when to our constant company 
there was added a colonel and his lady, a son of 
his and two daughters, a maid of honour to the 
Queen of Bohemia, and another colonel or a ma- 
jor, I know not which, besides all the tongue they 



Visiting 327 

brought with them ; the men the greatest drink- 
ers that ever I saw, which did not at all agree 
with my brother, who would not be drawn to it 
to save a kingdom if it lay at stake and no other 
way to redeem it ? But, in earnest, there was 
one more to be pitied besides us, and that was 
Colonel Thornhill's wife, as pretty a young woman 
as I have seen. She is Sir John Greenvil's sis- 
ter, and has all his good-nature, with a great deal 
of beauty and modesty, and wit enough. This 
innocent creature is sacrificed to the veriest beast 
that ever was. The first day she came hither he 
intended, it seems, to have come with her, but by 
the way called in to see an old acquaintance, and 
bid her go on, he would overtake her, but did not 
come till next night, and then so drunk he was 
led immediately to bed, whither she was to fol- 
low him when she had supped. I blest myself at 
her patience, as you may do that I could find 
anything to fill up this paper withal. Adieu. 



Letter 68. — In this scrap of writing we find 
that Temple is again in England with certain 
proposals from his father, and ready to discuss 
the " treaty," as Dorothy calls it, with her brother 
Peyton. The few remaining letters deal with 
the treaty. Temple would probably return to 
London when he left Ireland, and letters would 
pass frequently between them. There seems to 
have been some hitch as to who should appear in 



328 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

tbe treaty. Dorothy's brother had spoken of and 
behaved to Temple with all disrespect, but, now 
that he is reconciled to the marriage, Dorothy 
would have him appear, at least formally, in the 
negotiations. The last letter of this chapter, 
which is dated October 2nd, calls on Temple to 
come down to Kent, to Peyton's house ; and it is 
reasonable to suppose that at this interview all 
was practically settled to the satisfaction of those 
two who were most deeply concerned in the ne- 
gotiation. 

I DID so promise myself a letter on Friday that 
I am very angry I had it not, though I know you 
were not come to town when it should have been 
writ. But did not you tell me you should not 
stay above a day or two ? What is it that has 
kept you longer ? I am pleased, though, that 
you are out of the power of so uncertain things 
as the winds and the sea, which I never feared 
for myself, but did extremely apprehend for you. 
You will find a packet of letters to read, and 
maybe have met with them already. If you 
have, you are so tired that 'tis but reasonable I 
should spare you in this. For, [to] say truth, I 
have not time to make this longer ; besides that 
if I had, my pen is so very good that it writes an 
invisible hand, I think ; I am sure I cannot read 
it myself. If your eyes are better, you will find 
that I intended to assure you I am 

Yours. 



Visiting 329 

Letter 69. 

I AM but newly waked out of an unquiet sleep, 
and I find it so late that if I write at all it must 
be now. Some company that was here last night 
kept us up till three o'clock, and then we lay 
three in a bed, which was all the same to me 
as if we had not gone to bed at all. Since 
dinner they are all gone, and our company with 
them part of the way, and with much ado I got 
to be excused, that I might recover a little sleep, 
but am so moped yet that, sure, this letter will 
be nonsense. 

I would fain tell you, though, that your father 
is mistaken, and that you are not, if you believe 
that I have all the kindness and tenderness for 
you my heart is capable of. Let me assure you 
(whate'er your father thinks) that had you £20,000 
a year I could love you no more than I do, and 
should be far from showing it so much lest it 
should look like a desire of your fortune, which, 
as to myself, I value as little as anybody in the 
world, and in this age of changes ; but certainly 
I know what an estate is. I have seen my fa- 
ther's reduced, better than £4000, to not £400 a 
year, and I thank God I never felt the change in 
anything that I thought necessary. I never 
wanted, nor am confident I never shall. But j^et, 
I would not be thought so inconsiderate a person 
as not to remember that it is expected from all 



330 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

people that have sense that they should act with 
reason, that to all persons some proportion of 
fortune is necessary, according to their several 
qualities, and though it is not required that one 
should tie oneself to just so much, and something 
is left for one's inclination, and the difference in 
the persons to make, yet still within such a com- 
pass, — and such as lay more upon these considera- 
tions than they will bear, shall infallibly be con- 
demned by all sober persons. If any accident 
out of my power should bring me to necessity 
though never so great, I should not doubt with 
God's assistance but to bear it as well as any- 
body, and I should never be ashamed on't if He 
pleased to send it me ; but if by my own folly I 
had put it upon myself, the case would be ex- 
tremely altered. If ever this comes to a treaty, 
I shall declare that in my own choice I prefer 
you much before any other person in the world, 
and all that this inclination in me (in the judg- 
ment of any persons of honour and discretion) 
will bear, I shall desire may be laid upon it to 
the uttermost of what they can allow. And if 
your father please to make up the rest, I know 
nothing that is like to hinder me from being 
yours. But if your father, out of humour, shall 
refuse to treat with such friends as I have, let 
them be what they will, it must end here ; for 
though I was content, for your sake, to lose them, 



Visiting 331 

and all the respect they had for me, yet, now I 
have done that, I'll never let them see that I 
have so little interest in you and yours as not to 
prevail that my brother may be admitted to treat 
for me. Sure, when a thing of course and so 
much reason as that (unless I did disclose to all 
the world he were my enemy), it must be ex- 
pected whensoever I dispose of myself he should 
be made no stranger to it. When that shall be 
refused me, I may be justly reproached that I 
deceived myself when I expected to be at all 
valued in a family that I am a stranger to, or 
that I should be considered with any respect be- 
cause I had a kindness for you, that made me not 
value my own interests. 

I doubt much whether all this be sense or not ; 
I find ray head so heavy. But that which I 
would say is, in short, this : if I did say once 
that my brother should have nothing to do in't, 
'twas when his carriage towards me gave me 
such an occasion as could justify the keeping 
that distance with him ; but now it would look 
extremely unhandsome in me, and, sure, I hope 
your father would not require it of me. If he 
does, I must conclude he has no value for me, 
and, sure, I never disobliged hira to my knowl- 
edge, and should, with all the willingness imagi- 
nable, serve him if it lay in my power. 

Good God ! what an unhappy person am I. 



332 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

All the world is so almost. Just now they are 
telling me of a gentleman near us that is the 
most wretched creature made (by the loss of a 
wife that he passionately loved) that can be. If 
your father would but in some measure satisfy 
my friends that I might but do it in any justifi- 
able manner, you should dispose me as you 
pleased, carry me whither you would, all places 
of the world would be alike to me where you 
were, and I should not despair of carrying my- 
self so towards him as might deserve a better 
opinion from him. 

I am yours. 

Letter TO. 

My doubts and fears were not at all increased 
by that which gives you so many, nor did I ap- 
prehend that your father might not have been 
prevailed with to have allowed my brother's 
being seen in the treaty ; for as to the thing it- 
self, whether he appears in't or not, 'twill be the 
same. He cannot but conclude my brother Pey- 
ton would not do anything in it without the 
others' consent. 

I do not pretend to any share in your father's 
kindness, as having nothing in me to merit it ; 
but as much a stranger as I am to him, I should 
have taken it very ill if I had desired it of him, 
and he had refused it me. I do not believe my 



Visiting 333 

brother has said anything to his prejudice, unless 
it were in his persuasions to me, and there it did 
not injure him at all. If he takes it ill that my 
brother appears so very averse to the match, I 
may do so too, that he was the same ; and noth- 
ing less than my kindness for you could have 
made me take so patiently as I did his saying to 
some that knew me at York that he was forced 
to bring you thither and afterwards to send you 
over lest you should have married me. This was 
not much to my advantage, nor hardly civil, I 
think, to any woman ; yet I never so much as 
took the least notice on't, nor had not now, but 
for this occasion ; yet, sure, it concerns me to be 
at least as nice as he in point of honour. I think 
'tis best for me to end here lest my anger should 
make me lose that respect I would always have 
for your father, and 'twere not amiss, I think, 
that I devoted it all towards you for being so 
idle as to run out of your bed to catch such a 
cold. 

If you come hither you must expect to be 
chidden so much that you will wish that you had 
stayed till we came up, when perhaps I might 
have almost forgot half my quarrel to you. At 
this present I can assure you I am pleased with 
nobody but your sister, and her I love extremely, 
and will call her pretty ; say what you will, I 
know she must be so, though I never saw more of 



334 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

her than what her letters show. She shall have 
two " spots " [carriage dogs] if she please (for I 
had just such another given me after you were 
gone), or anything else that is in the power of 

Yours. 

Letter 71. 
Monday, October the 2nd [1654]. 
After a long debate with myself how to sat- 
isfy you and remove that rock (as you call it), 
Avhich in your apprehensions is of so great danger, 
I am at last resolved to let you see that I value 
your affections for me at as high a rate as you 
yourself can set it, and that you cannot have 
more of tenderness for me and my interests than 
I shall ever have for yours. The particulars how 
I intend to make this good you shall know when 
I see you ; which since I find them here more 
irresolute in point of time (though not as to the 
journey itself) than I hoped they would have 
been, notwithstanding your quarrel to me, and 
the apprehension you would make me believe 
you had that I do not care to see you, pray come 
hither and try whether you shall be welcome or 
not ! In sober earnest now I must speak with 
you; and to that end if your occasions will 
[serve] come down to Canterbury. Send some 
one when you are there, and you shall have 
further directions. 



Visiting 335 

You must be contented not to stay here above 
two or three hours. I shall tell you my reason 
when you come. And pray inform yourself of 
all that your father will do on this occasion, that 
you may tell it me only ; therefore let it be 
plainly and sincerely what he intends and all. 

I will not hinder your coming away so much 
as the making this letter a little longer might 
take away from your time in reading it. 'Tis 
enough to tell you I am ever 

Yours. 



CHAPTER VII 

THE END OF THE THIRD VOLUME 

This short series of notes was written, I 
think, during a visit to London after the formal 
betrothal and before the marriage. These notes 
were evidently written upon the trivial occasions 
of the day, more perhaps for the sake of writing 
something than for any more serious reason. The 
note in French is somewhat of a curiosity on ac- 
count of its quaint orthography, which is pur- 
posely left uncorrected. Was Dorothy in London 
to purchase her trousseau f Where did she and 
Jane spend their days, if that was the case, when 
Regent Street was green fields ? These questions 
cannot be satisfactorily answered ; but the notes 
themselves, without any history or explanation, 
are so full of interest, so fresh and vivacious, 
even for Dorothy, that they place themselves 
from the freedom and joy of their style and man- 
ner at the end of the third volume. 

You are like to have an excellent housewife of 
me ; I am abed still, and slept so soundly, nothing 
but your letter could have waked me. You shall 
hear from me as soon as we have dined. Fare- 
well ; can you endure that word ? No, out upon't. 
I'll see you anon. 

336 



The End of the Third Volume 337 

Fye upon't I shall grow too good now, I am 
taking care to know how your worship slept to- 
night ; better I hope than you did the last. 
Send me word how you do, and don't put me off 
with a bit of a note now ; you could write me a 
fine long letter when I did not deserve it half so 
well. 

You are mistaken if you think I am in debt 
for both these days. Saturday I confess was 
devoted to my Lady ; but yesterday, though I ris 
with good intentions of going to church, my cold 
would not suffer me, but kept me prisoner all the 
day. I went to your lodging to tell you that 
visiting the sick was part of the work of the day, 
but you were gone, and so I went to bed again, 
where your letter found me this morning. But 
now I will rise and despatch some visits that I 
owe, that to-morrow may be entirely yours. 

I FIND my conscience a little troubled till I have 
asked your pardon for my ill-humour last night. 
"Will you forgive it me ; in earnest, I could not 
help it, but I met with a cure for it ; my brother 
kept me up to hear his learned lecture till after 
two o'clock, and I spent all my ill-humour upon 
him, and yet we parted very quietly, and look'd 
as if a little good fortune might make us good 
friends ; but your special friend, my elder brother, 



338 Love Letters from Dorothy Oshorne 

I have a story to tell you of him. Will my cousin 
F. come, think you ? Send me word, it maybe 
'twas a compliment ; if I can see you this morning 
I will, but I dare not promise it. 

Sir, — This is to tell you that you will be ex- 
pected to-morrow morning about nine o'clock at 
a lodging over against the place where Charinge 
Crosse stood, and two doors above Ye Goate 
Taverne ; if with these directions you can find it 
out, you will there find one that is very much 

Your servant. 

Now I have got the trick of breaking my word, 
I shall do it every day. I must go to Koehamp- 
ton to-day, but 'tis all one, you do not care much 
for seeing me. Well, my master, remember last 
night you swaggered like a young lord. I'll 
make your stomach come down ; rise quickly, 
you had better, and come hither that I may give 
you a lesson this morning before I go. 

Je n'ay guere plus dorraie que vous et mes 
songes n'ont pas estres moins confuse, au rest 
une bande de violons que sont venu jouer sous 
ma fennestre, m'ont tourmentes de tel fapon que 
je doubt fort si je pourrois jamais les souffrire 
encore, je ne suis pourtant pas en fort mauvaise 
humeur et je m'en-voy ausi tost que je serai 



The End of the Third Volume 339 

habillee voire ce qu'il est posible de faire pour 
vostre sattisfaction, apres je viendre vous rendre 
conte de nos affairs et quoy qu'il en sera vous ne 
scaurois jamais doubte que je ne vous ayme plus 
que toutes les choses du monde. 

I HAVE slept as little as you, and may be al- 
lowed to talk as unreasonably, yet I find I am 
not quite senseless ; I have a heart still that can- 
not resolve to refuse you anything within its 
power to grant. But, Lord, when shall I see 
you ? People will think me mad if I go abroad 
this morning after having seen me in the condi- 
tion I was in last night, and they will think it 
strange to see you here. Could you not stay till 
they are all gone to Roehampton ? they go this 
morning. I do but ask, though do what you 
please, only believe you do a great injustice if 
you think me false. I never resolv'd to give you 
an eternal farewell, but I resolv'd at the same 
time to part with all the comfort of my life, and 
whether I told it you or not I shall die yours. 

Tell me what you will have me do. 

Here comes the note again to tell you I can- 
not call on you to-night ; I cannot help it, and 
you must take it as patiently as you can, but I 
am engaged to-night at the Three Rings to sup 
and play. Poor man, I am sorry for you ; in 



340 Love Letters frotn Dorothy Osborne 

earnest, I shall be quite spoiled. I see no 
remedy ; think whether it were not best to leave 
me and begin a new adventure. 

And now we have finished. Dorothy Osborne 
is passing away, will soon be translated into 
Dorothy Temple ; with the romance of her life 
all past history, and fast becoming as much a 
romance to herself, as it seems to us, looking 
back at it after more than two centuries. Some- 
thing it is becoming to her over which she can 
muse and dream and weave into tales for the 
children who will gather round her. Something 
the reality of which will grow doubtful to her, if 
she find idle hours for dreaming and doubting in 
her new name. Her last lover's letter is written. 
"We are ready for the marriage ceremony, and 
listen for the wedding march and happy jingle 
of village bells ; or if we may not have these in 
Puritan days, at least we may hear the pompous 
magistrate pronounce the blessing of the State 
over its two happy subjects. But no ! There is 
yet a moment of suspense, a last trial to the 
lover's constancy. The bride is taken danger- 
ously ill, so dangerously ill that the doctors re- 
joice when the disease pronounces itself to be 
small-pox. Alas ! who shall now say what are 
the inmost thoughts of our Dorothy ? Does she 
not need all her faith in her lover, in herself, ay, 
and in God, to uphold her in this new affliction ? 
She rises from her bed, her beauty of face de- 
stroyed ; her fair looks living only on the 
painter's canvas, unless we may believe that they 
were etched in deeply bitten lines on Temple's 



The End of the Third Volume 341 

heart. But the skin beauty is not the firmest hold 
she has on Temple's affections; this was not the 
beauty that had attracted her lover and held him 
enchained in her service for seven years of wait- 
ing and suspense ; this was not the only light 
leading him through dark days of doubt, almost 
of despair, constant, unwavering in his troth to 
her. Other beauty not outward, of which we, 
too, may have seen something, mirrowed darkly 
in these letters ; which we, too, as well as Temple, 
may know existed in Dorothy. For it is not 
beauty of face and form, but of what men call 
the soul, that made Dorothy to Temple, in fact 
as she was in name, — the gift of God. 



Appendix 



LADY TEMPLE 

Of Lady Temple there is very little to be 
known, and what there is can be best understood 
by following the career of her husband, which 
has been written at some length, and with 
laboured care, by Mr. Courtenay. After her 
marriage, which took place in London, January 
31st, 1655, they lived for a year at the home of 
a friend in the country. They then removed to 
Ireland, where they lived for five years with 
Temple's father; Lady Giifard, Temple's wid- 
owed sister, joining them. In 1663 they were 
living in England. Lady Giffard continued to 
live with them through the rest of their lives, 
and survived them both. In 1665 Temple was 
sent to Brussels as English representative, and 
his family joined him in the following year. In 
1668 he was removed from Brussels to the Hague, 
where the successful negotiations which led to 
the Triple Alliance took place, and these have 
given him an honourable place in history. There 
is a letter of Lady Temple's, written to her hus- 
band in 1670, which shows how interested she 
was in the part he took in political life, and how 
he must have consulted her in all State matters. 

342 



Appendix 343 

It is taken from Courtenay's Life of Sir William 
Temple, vol. i. p. 345. He quotes it as the only 
letter written after Lady Temple's marriage 
which has come into his hands. 



The Hague, October ZUt, 1670. 
My Deaeest Heaet, — I received yours from 
Yarmouth, and was very glad you made so happy 
a passage. 'Tis a comfortable thing, when one 
is on this side, to know that such a thing can be 
done in spite of contrary winds. I have a letter 
from P., who says in character that you may take 
it from him that the Duke of Buckingham has 
begun a negotiation there, but what success in 
England he may have he knows not; that it 
were to be wished our politicians at home would 
consider well that there is no trust to be put in 
alliances with ambitious kings, especially such as 
make it their fundamental maxim to be base. 
These are bold words, but they are his own. 
Besides this, there is nothing but that the French 
King grows very thrifty, that all his buildings, 
except fortifications, are ceased, and that his pay- 
ments are not so regular as they used to be. 
The people here are of another mind ; they will 
not spare their money, but are resolved — at least 
the States of Holland — if the rest will consent, 
to raise fourteen regiments of foot and six of 
horse ; that all the companies, both old and new, 



34-1: Love Letters from Dorothy Oshorne 

shall be of 120 men that used to be of 50, and 
every troop 80 that used to be of 45. JS^othing 
is talked of but these new levies, and the young 
men are much pleased. Downton says they have 
strong suspicions here you will come back no 
more, and that they shall be left in the lurch ; 
that something is striking up with France, and 
that you are sent away because you are too well 
inclined to these countries ; and my cousin Tem- 
ple, he says, told him that a nephew of Sir Rob- 
ert Long's, who is lately come to Utrecht, told 
my cousin Temple, three weeks since, you were 
not to stay long here, because you were too great 
a friend to these people, and that he had it from 
Mr. Williamson, who knew very well what he 
said. My cousin Temple says he told it to Major 
Scott as soon as he heard it, and so 'tis like you 
knew it before ; but there is such a want of some- 
thing to say that I catch at everything. I am 

my best dear's most affectionate 

D. T. 

In the summer of 1671 there occurred an inci- 
dent that reminds us considerably of the Dorothy 
Osborne of former days. The Triple Alliance 
had lost some of its freshness, and was not so 
much in vogue as heretofore. Charles II. had 
been coquetting with the French King, and at 
length the Government, throwing off its mask, 
formally displaced Temple from his post in Hol- 
land. " The critical position of affairs," says 



Apjpendix 345 

Courtenay, " induced the Dutch to keep a fleet at 
sea, and the English Government hoped to draw 
from that circumstance an occasion of quarrel. 
A yacht was sent for Lady Temple ; the captain 
had orders to sail through the Dutch fleet if he 
should meet it, and to fire into the nearest ships 
until they should either strike sail to the flag 
which he bore, or return his shot so as to make a 
quarrel ! 

"He saw nothing of the Dutch Fleet in going 
over, but on his return he fell in with it, and 
fired, without warning and ceremony, into the 
ships that were next him. 

"The Dutch admiral. Van Ghent, was puzzled ; 
he seemed not to know, and probably did not 
know, what the English captain meant ; he there- 
fore sent a boat, thinking it possible that the 
yacht might be in distress ; when the captain told 
his orders, mentioning also that he had the am- 
bassadress on board. Yan Ghent himself then 
came on board, with a handsome compliment to 
Lady Temple, and, making his personal inquiries 
of the captain, received the same answer as be- 
fore. The Dutchman said he had no orders upon 
the point, which he rightly believed to be still 
unsettled, and could not believe that the fleet, 
commanded by an admiral, was to strike to the 
King's pleasure-boat. 

" When the Admiral returned to his ship, the 
captain also, ' perplexed enough,' applied to Lady 
Temple, who soon saw that he desired to get out 
of his difliculty by her help ; but the wife of Sir 
William Temple called forth the spirit of Dorothy 
Osborne. ' He knew,' she told the captain, ' his 



346 Love Letters from Dorothy Osborne 

orders best, and what he was to do upon them, 
which she left to him to follow as he thought 
fit, without any regard to her or her children.' 
The Dutch and English commanders then pro- 
ceeded each upon his own course, and Lady Tem- 
ple was safely landed in England." 

There is an account of this incident in a letter 
of Sir Charles Lyttelton to Viscount Hatton, in 
the Hatton Correspondence. He tells us that 
the poor captain, Captain Crow of The Mon- 
onouth^ " found himself in the Tower about it ; " 
but he does not add any further information as 
to the part which Dorothy played in the matter. 

After their retirement to Sheen and Moor 
Park, Surrey, we know nothing distinctively of 
Lady Temple, and little is known of their famil}'- 
life. They had only two children living, having 
lost as many as seven in their infancy. In 1684 
one of these children, their only daughter, died 
of small-pox ; she was buried in Westminster 
Abbey. There is a letter of hers w^ritten to her 
father which shows some signs of her mother's 
affectionate teaching, and which we cannot for- 
bear to quote. It is copied from Courtenay, vol. 
ii. p. 113. 

Sir, — I deferred writing to you till I could tell 
you that I had received aU my fine things, Avhich 
I have just now done ; but I thought never to 
have done giving you thanks for them. They 
have made me so very happy in my new clothes, 
and everybody that comes does admire them 
above all things, but yet not so much as I think 



A'p])endix 347 

they deserve ; and now, if papa was near, I should 
think myself a perfect pope, though I hope I 
should not be burned as there was one at Nell 
Gwyn's door the 5th of November, who was set 
in a great chair, with a red nose half a yard long, 
with some hundreds of boys throwing squibs at it. 
Monsieur Gore and I agree mighty well, and he 
makes me believe I shall come to something at 
last ; that is if he stays, which I don't doubt but 
he will, because all the fine ladies will petition 
for him. We are got rid of the workmen now, 
and our house is ready to entertain you. Come 
when you please, and you will meet nobody more 
glad to see you than your most obedient and 
dutiful daughter, 

D. Temple. 

Temple's son, John Temple, married in 1685 a 
rich heiress in France, the daughter of Monsieur 
Duplessis Rambouillet, a French Protestant ; he 
brought his wife to live at his father's house at 
Sheen. After King William and Queen Mary 
were actually placed on the throne, Sir William 
Temple, in 1089, permitted his son to accept the 
office of Secretary at War. For reasons now ob- 
scure and unknowable, he drowned himself in 
the Thames within a week of his acceptance of 
office, leaving this writing behind him : — 

" My folly in undertaking what I was not able 
to perform has done the King and kingdom a 
great deal of prejudice. I wish him all happiness 
and abler servants than John Temple." 



348 Love Letters from Dorothy Oshorne 

The following letter was written on that occa- 
sion by Lady Temple to her nephew, Sir John 
Osborne. The original of it is at Chicksands : — 

To Sir John Oshorne^ thanking him for his 
consolation on the death of her son. 

Sheen, May Qth, 1689. 
Dear Nephew, — I give you many thanks for 
your kind letter and the sense you have of my 
affliction, which truly is very great. But since 
it is laid upon me by the hand of an Almighty 
and Gracious God, that always proportions His 
punishments to the support He gives with them, 
I may hope to bear it as a Christian ought to do, 
and more especially one that is conscious to her- 
self of having many ways deserved it. The 
strange revolution we have seen might well have 
taught me what this world is, yet it seems it was 
necessary that I should have a near example of 
the uncertainty of all human blessings, that so 
having no tie to the world I may the better pre- 
pare myself to leave it ; and that this correction 
may suffice to teach me my duty must be the 
prayer of your affectionate aunt and humble 
servant, 

D. Temple. 

During the remaining years of her life. Lady 
Temple was honoured, to use the conventional 
phrase, by the friendship of Queen Mary, and 



Appendix 349 

there is said to have been a continuous corre- 
spondence between them, though I can find on 
inquiry no trace of its existence at the present 
day. 

Early in the year 1695, after forty years of 
married life, and in the ^ixty-seventh year of her 
age, she died. She lies, with her husband and 
children, on the north side of the nave of West- 
minster Abbey, close to the little door that leads 
to the organ gallery. 

Her ))ocly sleeps in Capel's monument, 
And her immortal part with angels lives. 



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